Chapter 2: The Diner Booth
The rain didn't let up; it only shifted from a hard downpour to a steady, needle-like mist that managed to soak through my old jacket in minutes. I slipped away from the Grand Royal's bright awning before the doorman could make good on his threat, keeping my head down as I crossed the wide avenue. The tires of passing cars hissed against the slick asphalt, throwing up spray that caught the amber glare of the streetlights. Across the street, wedged between a pawnshop and a shuttered laundry, neon tubes flickered in a greasy window, spelling out the word EATS in fading red letters.
The door of the diner hung slightly off-kilter, letting in a draft of cold air that made the plastic fringe on the booth seats shiver. Inside, the air was thick with the heavy, comforting smell of burnt grease, strong coffee, and onions frying on a flat-top grill. There were only a couple of customers sitting at the counter—night shift workers in grease-stained canvas jackets staring into thick ceramic mugs.
I slid into the last booth near the back, pulling my knees up against my chest to trap whatever body heat I had left. My scuffed sneakers left a dark puddle of water on the linoleum floor. I laid my hands flat on the scarred Formica table, my fingers stiff and blue from the cold.
A woman appeared at the end of the table with a stained white rag, wiping down the surface with slow, circular motions. She had short, practical graying hair tucked behind her ears and a faded green apron tied over a blue uniform dress. Her eyes were tired, edged with the kind of deep lines that come from standing on tile floors for fourteen hours a day, but when she looked at me, her gaze wasn't sharp or judgmental like the blonde woman by the luxury car. It was steady, assessing, and entirely human.
"You're a long way from home, kid," she said, her voice gravelly from years of cigarette smoke and cheap coffee. "And the weather outside isn't exactly inviting visitors."
"I'm not looking for visitors," I murmured, staring down at the grain of the plastic table.
She paused, dropping the rag into a plastic bucket on her hip. "Hungry?"
"I don't have any money," I said, feeling the familiar knot tighten in my stomach.
"I didn't ask about your wallet. I asked if you were hungry. The soup pot's been simmering since noon, and nobody's going to eat the last of the grilled cheese." She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and walked back toward the kitchen, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking softly on the floor.
A few minutes later, she set a heavy white mug of steaming water with a lemon wedge and a thick bowl of potato soup in front of me. The heat rose off the broth, carrying the smell of butter and black pepper. I picked up the heavy metal spoon with fingers that barely worked, scooping the soup slowly. It burned the roof of my mouth, but the warmth felt like it was waking up parts of me that had frozen solid back on the hotel pavement.
While I ate, the waitress stood nearby, wiping down the salt and pepper shakers. Her eyes drifted to the bulge in my jacket pocket where the old photo and the folded paper rested.
"You got something in there you're guarding with your life?" she asked quietly, nodding toward my pocket.
I stopped chewing. For a second, I thought about pulling away, pressing my hand over the fabric to keep it hidden. But the exhaustion in her face matched the weariness I felt in my bones. Slowly, I reached into the pocket and pulled out the small folded piece of lined paper. The edges were soft and frayed from being handled a thousand times. I laid it flat on the table, smoothing out the creases with my palm.
The waitress leaned over, squinting under the dim amber light of the booth lamp. Printed in blocky, uneven ink across the top was a name I had memorized before I even knew how to read: Jax Miller. Below it was a crude drawing of a winged piston and a greasy thumbprint.
Her breath caught. The rag in her hand stopped moving. She reached out, her fingers hovering just above the paper as if she were afraid it might dissolve if she touched it.
"Where did you get this?" she whispered, her voice dropping an octave, losing its professional waitress cadence entirely.
"My mom gave it to me," I said, my voice barely louder than the hum of the diner's old refrigerator. "She said if things got bad, and we couldn't find food or a place to sleep, I should find the man who owned this shop. She said he'd know what the photo meant."
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The waitress straightened up, her eyes wide as she looked from the paper to my face, really seeing me for the first time—the pale skin, the hazel eyes, the messy light brown hair that curled at the nape of my neck just like the man in her own distant memories.
"Jax," she breathed, half to herself. She looked toward the pay phone mounted by the kitchen door, then back at me with sudden, grim determination. "Kid, you stay right here. Don't touch your coat, don't move an inch. I'm making a phone call."
