Paul Rovia

K guesses as much, which means when he shows up late in the afternoon the next day, he brings food. He made biscuits, and he's getting a bit better at them, but he bought some fried chicken and a pound cake at a deli and that's in the bag on his arm when he knocks.

Everything about Tumenalia has worn off of him now, and the smile he offers is small and tentative. "Hey," he says, softly, from behind the upturned - but not zipped - collar of his coat.