The delivery guy, like us, has figured out that the sky is about to totally open up, and he's struggling to drag his bike into the restaurant while talking in rapid, clipped Chinese into his phone.
I grab the door to help him out and he flashes me a grateful thumbs up, without stopping, or indeed even slowing, his conversation.
"Looks like it's starting to rain," I announce in a big midwestern voice to the woman packing up our food behind the counter, and she grabs a plastic bag in which to put the paper bag full of vegetarian hunan chicken and spareribs.
"Stay dry," Katie calls over her shoulder as we dash into the increasingly swift descending rain.
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