Lauren didn't say anything. People did all kinds of things. People in Butte that winter did all kinds of things.
"Thank you," the old woman said, when she stood up. "You tell that cook to be more careful."
"I'll tell him," Lauren said.
"I'm Johanna," the old woman said. "Johanna Treloar." And she put out her hand across the counter, bare, red at the knuckles, and Lauren shook it. It was like shaking hands with a bundle of cold kindling.
"Lauren."
"I know," Johanna Treloar said, and nodded at the name tag on Lauren's uniform, and almost smiled. Then she went out.
"Treloar," Stevo said, from the grill, after the door had shut. "That's Cousin Jack. Cornish. My dad used to say you could tell a Cousin Jack by he'd steal the pasty right out of your bucket and then tell you how to bake it better." He flipped a row of pancakes. "She's not on the county, I don't think. I'd know her if she was on the county."
"I don't know what she's on," said Lauren.
"Well," Stevo said, and scraped the grill. "She's on my eggs now, I guess."
That was the first week of December.