“I ASKED TOM.He shrugged.We’d agreed to meet at one of the many hot dog stands interspersed between souvenir vendors along 17th Street NW. Tom ordered a Polish with sauerkraut and I got my usual hot dog with mustard and tomato. If I’d been by myself, I’d have taken onions, too.As I ducked under a tree to get out of the unseasonably hot sun, Tom gave our snacks a frown. “With all the amazing food you create, how come we eat this junk?”“A taste of home. For me, at least.” I thought about Chicago-s...tyle hot dogs, the stuff of which legends are made. “But you’re avoiding my question.”He shrugged again.“You’ve got some nasty dark circles there,” I said. “And you look like you’re ready to drop.”“Gee, thanks,” he said, rolling his eyes.“Come on.” I touched his arm. “You know I’m just worried about you.”There was a long moment of silence. I took a bite of my hot dog, and Tom stared out to some middle distance. I tried to figure out what he was looking at, but there was nothing unusual out there.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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