“Ella!” John yelled. The sound of her name in his mouth was nauseating. “Where’s my Arby’s? You eat it? Girl, I swear, that answer better be no!”
She and her mother were strict vegetarians. This fact seemed to frequently escape him, unencumbered as he was by any real working memory. She did hope he’d find the sandwich, though. She’d spent hours curing its meat and mayo under the brutal Florida sun. If he ever called her spoiled again, she’d just laugh.