Chapter 4: Coffee on Main Street

Tuesday morning I walked into town alone.

Caleb was splitting kindling behind the shack, because he needed to hit something and the stove needed wood.

I had my braid, my secondhand puffer coat and a debit card with a hundred and eighty dollars on it.

The Morning Glory Diner sat across from the square, with a string of colored lights around its window.

Every head turned when I opened the door.

The talk in the room dropped away.

Eleven faces, mostly gray-haired, all looking at me over their eggs.

I walked to the counter and sat on a stool.

The owner was a stout woman in a green apron.

She stood very still with the coffeepot in her hand.

"We're not serving you," she said.

"Last night you were closed. It's seven in the morning."

"Dale said."

"Dale said what, exactly?"

She did not answer.

"Dale isn't here," I said. "Pour me a coffee, or tell me to my face you won't."

The woman set the pot down.

She looked at my hands, which were chapped from twelve-hour shifts, and her mouth tightened.

Then she filled a mug, hard enough to slop it, and slid it over.

"Two dollars."

I put down three.

Nobody spoke again.

I drank my coffee, stared at a pie case, and decided I could sit there until noon.

A small boy came and stood next to my stool.

He was about nine, and wore a jacket two sizes too thin, with the zipper broken.

His nose was red from the cold.

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