Page 39 of Close Encounters of the Hot Kind

"One East 161st Street?" I mutter. "That's—wait."

A quick check on my phone confirms it. That's Yankee Stadium.

My eyes dart to the next section. Date of birth... 1910? The paper trembles in my hands as I do the math. That would make him...

"A hundred and thirteen years old?"

The education section makes me choke on my own spit. Harvard University, PhD in Applied Pizza Sciences. Major focus on Theoretical Dough Dynamics.

I press the application against my face, the paper cool against my burning cheeks. The fresh ink leaves a faint chemical smell in my nose.

"Mom, Dad, tell me you were drinking when you hired this guy." The groan escapes through clenched teeth.

The stockroom door creaks as I push it open. Mom and Dad huddle over boxes of ingredients, their faces lit by the harsh fluorescent lights.

"Did you two lose your minds?" The application trembles in my hand.

"What?" Dad peers at me over his reading glasses. "Something wrong with the new guy?"

"His address is Yankee Stadium."

Mom tosses a jar of expired olives into the trash. "He said he's staying at a hotel nearby. The address is temporary."

"He claims he's from Jamaica."

"So?" Dad scratches his balding head. "Lots of people from Jamaica."

"Not people who look like department store mannequins and talk like robots."

"Aileen." Mom's voice takes on that warning tone. "Just because someone is different?—"

"Different? He's downright creepy. What if he's dangerous?"

Dad bursts out laughing. "Dangerous? The guy who showed up in pressed khakis and brought his own apron?"

"You should see him make pizza." Mom's eyes light up. "Like an artist. We're lucky to have him."

"But his application says he's a hundred and thirteen years old!"

"Typo." Dad waves his hand. "Must have meant 1980, not 1910."

"And the PhD in Applied Pizza Sciences?"

"Shows dedication to the craft." Mom nods sagely. "Unlike some people who still can't properly stretch dough after twenty years of practice."

"Hey!" Dad's protest echoes off the shelves.

I press my fingers against my temples. How can I explain without revealing Varak's secret? Without sounding completely insane?

"Why did you need to hire someone new anyway?" The words come out sharper than intended. "Business isn't up that much."

Mom and Dad exchange a look. That look. The one they share when they don't want to tell me something.

"What?" My stomach twists. "What aren't you telling me?"

Dad suddenly finds the ingredient labels fascinating. Mom wrings her hands, her wedding ring catching the fluorescent light.

"Honey." Mom's voice goes soft. "With you spending so much time with Charles lately..."

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