Zingers by Phil Cummings


The next day around lunchtime Karen walked in. She was looking good, as always. I was just happy to see her. She was also the solution to my hunger problem. She went down to the gift shop near the entrance of the hospital and got me two packages of Zingers and then tolerantly watched me tear the plastic wrappers off and wolf the sweet, greasy, disgustingly delicious little cakes down ravenously.