Chapter 7: Morning Shift Confrontation
The neon sign of the Oakhaven Diner was still buzzing softly against the pale gray light of dawn when Aunt Sarah parked the sedan in the gravel lot. The morning air carried the sharp, damp scent of pine and engine oil from the highway. Inside, the windows were fogged up from the grill, and the yellow interior glow cast long shadows across the asphalt. Aunt Sarah turned off the engine, but she didn't open her door right away. She sat with her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, looking toward the counter where a few early-rising truckers sat hunched over ceramic mugs of black coffee.
“You wait here for a minute, Leo,” she said, her voice low and careful. She adjusted the collar of her jacket, her breath fogging slightly against the windshield.
“Can I come in?” I asked, pressing my face against the cold side glass.
“Let me talk to her first,” Sarah replied, offering a reassuring squeeze to my shoulder before pushing her door open. The hinge gave a familiar, dry groan that seemed to echo across the empty lot.
I watched through the glass as she walked into the diner, the bell above the door chiming a bright, cheerful note that felt entirely out of place with the heavy knot in my stomach. She didn't sit in a booth. Instead, she walked straight up to the counter where Martha—the woman with the short hair and the clean white apron—was wiping down the formica surface with a damp rag. I saw Martha look up, her movements pausing instantly as she recognized my aunt. Even from outside, I could tell the conversation wasn't casual. Martha’s hands gripped the edge of the counter, and her posture went stiff and protective.
For nearly ten minutes, I sat in the backseat, watching them talk. Martha pointed a finger toward the back door that led to the alley and the mechanic bays behind the diner. Sarah nodded, her chin lifted with that stubborn family pride I knew so well. Finally, Martha reached up and untied her apron, tossing it onto a barstool, and pointed directly at the front door. She was coming out.
The door swung open, and Martha walked out into the chilly morning air, pulling a heavy knitted cardigan over her shoulders. She didn't look at the diner; she walked straight across the gravel and pulled open the passenger-side door of our car.
“Are you Leo?” Martha asked, leaning in. Her eyes weren't suspicious anymore; they were sharp, assessing, and tired, like someone who had spent too many years protecting people who didn't know how to protect themselves.
“Yes, ma'am,” I said, sitting up straight against the torn vinyl seat.
Martha let out a short breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “You've got his eyes, kid. Exact same stubborn look, too. Listen to me. Jax is back there in the bay, tearing down a transmission on an old Ford. He’s been there since four in the morning, trying to avoid looking at the front door. If you want to talk to him where the whole town isn't staring, you go through the alley gate. But you better be ready for him to growl at you. He’s not used to anyone holding their ground.”
Aunt Sarah walked out of the diner just behind her, buttoning her coat against the rising wind. She looked at Martha, then down at me, and gave a slow, deliberate nod.
May you like
“Go on, Leo,” Sarah said softly. “I'll stay here with Martha.”
I didn't wait to be told twice. I pushed my door open, my sneakers crunching sharply against the loose gravel as I stepped out into the crisp morning wind. My heart was beating hard against my ribs, but the fear I’d felt yesterday was gone, replaced by a strange, steady determination. I walked past the side of the building, past the rusted trash bins and the stack of empty wooden pallets, heading straight for the open sliding door of the repair bay where the heavy scent of burning rubber and fresh grease hung thick in the air.
