Chapter 5: Tuna Noodle

Waylon's aunt ran the diner on Main Street, and by seven on Sunday morning she had me rolling pie dough.

She was small and sixty-something, with a pencil in her hair and a rule that nobody in her kitchen stood still.

"Waylon says you bake," she said.

"I make cakes."

"A pie is a cake with opinions. Roll."

I rolled.

For ten minutes it was the first peaceful thing that had happened to me in two days.

I had answered my father's text before I left the house.

Why didn't she turn around?

He had written back one line.

Not now, Sam. Please. I'll explain.

I put the phone face down on the steel counter and kept rolling.

At 8:40 the bell over the door rang, and my mother walked in carrying a casserole.

She wore her good lilac cardigan and her church pearls.

She held the dish out in front of her with both hands.

She looked around the full counter and the booths and smiled at all of them.

"Good morning, everyone," she said. "I'm so sorry to bother you. I'm looking for my daughter."

I stood in the kitchen doorway with flour to my elbows.

The diner went quiet.

"Samantha," she said. "There you are."

"How did you find me?"

"The family map on your phone, honey. You never turned it off."

She set the casserole on the counter between two coffee cups.

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