“That wasn’t on the counter ,” Denver roared, pulling off his red jumpsuit’s zipper halfway. “That was my cracker. My late-night , nobody-else-is-awake, I-dip-it-in-Nairobi’s-leftover-honey cracker.”
The Royal Mint of Spain was silent, save for the hum of the printing presses. But in the cafeteria, chaos was about to erupt.
“It was on the counter,” Rio stammered. “I was hungry.”
Silence.
He looked at the cracker. He looked at Rio’s terrified face. He looked at the little girl.
Denver sighed, a dramatic, world-weary sigh. He broke the cracker in half. He handed one piece to Rio.