The Ghoul's first impulse was to grab Jimmy-Janey and simply run. However, Cooper Howard squashed that impulse like a bug of the world before. That course of action would leave Miz Hunter in a bad place, and he would wind up having to come back for her.

Instead he let himself drink in the sight of his daughter, who was looking well, and not with the caveat 'for a ghoul' attached. Sure, her skin was looking a bit thicker than before, but less like old leather than most ghouls and more like suede. She was taller than before, though not as tall as she should be, given that she should be about twelve by now. Well, ghouls aged slowly. He was glad she was growing at all.

And she was missing most of her nose, but damned if she wasn't cute as a button anyway.

Up at the head of the line, a legionary was asking the elderly ghoul, who was almost certainly Lana Hunter in disguise, a question about lunch. "What are those black bits in it? Did you burn it?"

"'Scuse me, Mister, but my Pop-pop needs help." 'Jimmy' said, and went up to tell the man, "Sir, those are spices. Black pepper grains." She tugged on 'Pop-pop's' sleeve, and when he leaned down, whispered in 'his' ear.

The 'ghoul' shot a look of surprise his way. He nodded back. He was looking forward to getting to talk to her.

The man at the head of the line had another question, "Why do you have two stewpots, but you're only serving from one?"

"That's our food, sir. Us ghouls, we don't have as good a sense of taste as humans, so we can eat spoiled meat and things that would make you sick. But if you want some…."

"No, that's all right," the legionary said. "Here," he handed over ten caps. "But give me two corn cakes."

"A second corn cake is another two caps, sir." Jimmy said.

"Hey, can you quit holding up the line?" the Ghoul barked at the man.

Startled, the man mumbled something, took his portion of stew, and cleared out.

The line inched along. Cooper got a glimpse of the stew for humans, and blinked. Unless he was much mistaken, the 'black pepper seeds' were actually jimsonweed seeds—hallucinogenic and fairly toxic. If it had any recreational value, he had inhaled it, eaten it, injected it, drunk it, smoked it or snorted it over the last two centuries, so he was familiar with the weed, also known as Angel's Trumpet for the shape of its beautiful blossoms.

That meant the legionaries were in for an interesting afternoon, and maybe even several days to come. The effects could last a week or more, and the severity ranged from 'See the pretty lights' to racing heartbeat and sudden cardiac failure. It had to be a deliberate move on Miz Hunter's part, incapacitating most of the men in order to make a getaway. That took spirit and daring.

He wondered how many of Caesar's men had eaten the stew. Half? More than half? As the line continued moving, he spotted a sawed-off shotgun nestled among the stacks of bowls and baskets of corn cakes. The shotgun had intricate engraving on it—a pair of skeletons dressed in wedding clothes. In one of the letters she left for him, Lana Hunter had described just such a gun. Yes, 'Pop-pop' was Lana Hunter, wearing what was either a well-crafted mask, or possibly someone's face she had cut off and tanned.

He didn't think any the worst of her if it was someone else's face. In the Wasteland, you did what you had to do.

Speaking of which… He took a deep breath, and offered up a quick mental prayer to…whoever might be listening.

A very frustrating weekend in which I could do no writing. Therefore, this short offering.