I nudged Stas. “What’s he eating?” I tilted my head to the right, to the giant white utility pick-up truck stopped beside us at the light.

He looked. Our top was down, as was his window. “Hey, what you got there?”

The elderly man smiled. “Ribs…” he drawled.

In his hand was a huge chunk of barbecued meat, glistening, smelling delicious.

“Where’d you get it?” I asked, eager to follow suit.

“Made it…” he drawled again, a trickle of sauce slowly making its way down his thumb.

This time it was Stas’ turn. “Got anymore?” he asked.

The old man smiled as he ripped off another bite. “Nope…” we heard as the light turned green and the man and his meat disappeared.

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