That was Joe—rough, blunt, built like a refrigerator, and still one of the most decent people I had ever met. At the end of long shifts, he would shove a burger and fries at me and grumble.

“Eat before you pass out and make paperwork for me.”

Sometimes I stayed after closing to wipe down counters while he complained about suppliers, food prices, broken freezers, and people who ordered eggs in ways that should have been illegal. Mrs. Rhode came in every Tuesday and Thursday morning at exactly eight. The first time I waited on her, she squinted at my name tag.

“James. You look tired enough to fall face-first into my waffle.”

“Long week.”

She snorted.

“Try being eighty-five.”

That was our beginning. After that, she always asked for me. She was sharp, difficult, and impossible in a way that somehow became almost funny once you got used to her. One morning, she looked at me over her coffee.

“You ever smile, son?”

“Sometimes.”

“I doubt it.”

Another day, she frowned at my hair.

“It gets worse every time I see you.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Hm. Better. You almost sound alive today.”

She was not sweet, exactly, but she noticed things. And when you have spent your whole life feeling invisible, being noticed can feel dangerously close to being loved.

Part 2

One afternoon, I was walking home with grocery bags when Mrs. Rhode called to me from behind her fence.

“You live nearby, James?”

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