“Wesley,” I said. “Wesley Keating.”
She repeated it, as though checking how it sounded. Then she offered her hand, noticed the ice pack, and withdrew it with an embarrassed smile. I switched the pack to my other palm and shook her hand anyway. Her fingers were cool, and there was a faint dusting of cardboard on the cuff of her sleeve.
“Sabrina,” she said.
“I did some advanced research.”
I glanced at her badge.
“Impressive. Most people stop at asking where the bread is.”
The supervisor called her name, and
