Alex finishes heaping food onto her plate before pouring some of the lemon juice into the water. That's when she feels his arm around her, and she has to tell herself not to pull away, that he's only reaching for something.

"I'm not picky." There had probably been good Chinese food in Michigan, but she hadn't been in the right frame of mind to appreciate it, and as a kid she hadn't really been interested in exploring the cheap Chinese dining options in Moscow. She'd had it a few times in New York, but for the most part she probably wouldn't know weird-tasting Chinese food from the good stuff.

She follows him to the table and sits down. Even after years of living in poverty and on the run, it's still habit to sit up straight and not put her elbows on the table. "What's wrong with the Mexican?"