He scuffed his boot on the wet concrete when he saw me standing by the delivery door with Theodore wrapped tight in my arms.

“You shouldn’t be here, Nora,” Brandon said.

“The kitchen manager doesn’t like people hanging around the back alley.”

“I’m not here to buy coffee or ask for a meal,” I said.

I took the folded white courier document out of my coat pocket and laid it flat on top of an upside-down yellow pickle bucket by the door.

It was the legal acknowledgment of paternity Pendelton had printed for me two days earlier.

“What’s that paper?” Brandon asked.