Neal held his cup out and Graham filled it.

“You don’t mind if I eat, do you?” Neal asked.

“Careful with the plates, they’re hot. And you have a fine selection of croissants, Danish, and muffins.”

Neal took the hot plate out of the tray’s warmer, set it on the table, and lifted the cover. The smell alone brought him close to tears, but then again, he’d breakfasted on rice gruel for the past few years, except on holidays, when he’d been allowed to add peanuts to the gruel.

“Is your bacon nice and crisp?” Graham asked. “Mine was.”

Neal slipped a slice of bacon into his mouth. It crunched between his teeth. “I’ve dreamed about this,” he said.

“You’re a sick puppy.”

Neal selected a plain croissant, spread a sliver of unsalted butter on it, took a mouthful, and then dug into the rest of his breakfast. He didn’t even look up until all that was left on the plate was a shiny residue of grease.

Joe Graham watched in awe.

“You eat like you’re condemned,” he said.

“Let me see those Danish.”

Neal picked out an apricot pastry and devoured it in three bites.

“Now for the newspapers,” he said. “I don’t even know who’s president.

“Ronald Reagan.

“No, seriously…”

Neal tore into the papers while Graham wandered out onto the terrace and checked out the early morning swimmers in the pool below.

“Exercise is a wonderful thing,” he observed as the two young lady swimmers stretched limbs and torsos.

The doorbell rang.

“It’s for you!” Neal yelled, absorbed in The New York Times. He was on serious sensory overload.

Graham tore himself away from the view and answered the door. Richard was standing in the hallway beside a luggage cart.

“It’s your clothes!” Graham shouted to Neal.

“I don’t have any clothes,” Neal answered as he tried to figure out the changes in the Yankees’ roster from the box score.