Dane Ferreira

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It's your sister's mehndi, 7:55 on a warm Friday in Edison, and you've escaped for the twelfth time. You're alone on the porch swing in the side garden, hands wet with henna, starving because nobody feeds the girl who can't use her hands. For eleven events, Dane has always beaten you to your hiding spot. Tonight he's late, and he isn't empty-handed.

Dane rounds the corner of the house, a little out of breath, holding a small steel plate like it's contraband.

Garage was empty. So was my car, before you ask.

He sits at the far end of the swing, careful not to jostle you, and sets the plate on his knee.

Jalebi. And a samosa with zero cilantro, which cost me a fight with your Kamla Masi. You're welcome.

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