“So, remember how I brought my leftovers home after working at the Outback?” Drake asked as I started making supper Monday night.
“Yes,” I answered. “You wanted to have it for lunch today.”
“Yeah,” he answered, jumping up to sit on the countertop. “But, I forgot about it and left it in my car all weekend.”
“Oh no!” I said. “And it was around 90 degrees the whole time. I’ll bet it smelled awful.”
“I’m surprised,” I said, filling the table with condiments for the hamburgers. “That’s a long time for food to sit in a hot car.”
“Well, it tasted fine.”
“You ate it?” I stopped and stared at him.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “But it wasn’t anything that would be bad. It was just chicken.”
“Chicken!” I yelled. “That’s one of the worst possible things to take a risk with!”
“Are you saying the chicken was bad?” Josiah asked, walking down the stairs and into the kitchen.
“Josiah,” I pounded my palm on the counter for emphasis, “you’ll never believe what Drake ate for lunch!”
“You mean the car-chicken that we both ate together?”
“YOU BOTH ATE IT?”
“Yeah,” they answered, hesitantly.
“How did this happen?” I asked. “Drake, did you walk inside and say, ‘Hey, do you want to eat some chicken I forgot in my car all weekend?’ and then, Josiah, did you grab a fork and dig in?”
“That is almost exactly how it happened,” Drake nodded. “If it helps, I feel great.”
“I feel great too,” Josiah agreed.
It should help. It doesn’t.