He looked at me and didn't answer.
I got him into the back booth, the one by the radiator, and I pulled his wet jacket off him and his hat and his sneakers, and his socks, which I wrung out in the dish sink, and I put the socks and the sneakers on the radiator and wrapped his feet in clean bar towels and put my own cardigan around him, the brown one that I kept on the hook by the walk-in for when the cooler got to me. I heated the chicken noodle and I heated the meatloaf and I put them in front of him and a hot chocolate with the canned whipped cream on top, which Helen did not allow for staff on account of the expense, and I sat across from him in the booth, which I had never done, and watched him.
He ate about half. That was the first time he didn't finish. He was quiet. He said thank you, and he said it was good, and he held the hot chocolate in both hands like it was the only warm thing in Ohio. The sleet kept on at the windows. Somebody's car went by on State Street with its wipers going, and the jukebox, unplugged for the night, sat dark by the door.
"Where were you yesterday?" I said.
"My mom needed me home," he said. "She had to go to an appointment and somebody had to wait for the man from the gas company." He blew on the chocolate. "They turned the heat back on."
"That's good."
"We paid," he said, quickly, as if I'd accused him of something. "My mom paid it. With her last check."
"I'm sure she did, hon."
He put the mug down. He was looking at me with that considering look again, but it was different now; tired, and something else under it, something that looked almost like he was scared. He said, "Can I ask you a thing?"
"You can ask me anything you want."
He opened his mouth, and closed it. Then he said, "Can I sleep for a minute first?"