he grease on the flat-top grill did not scrape off with the first pass, leaving a smell like burnt grease in the kitchen. Outside, the gravel parking lot of the diner was wet from the morning mist. At eight o’clock, the blue vinyl booth by the window remained empty.
Joe dropped a peeled potato into the bucket of cold water with a heavy splash. He wiped his hands on his white apron, leaving a wet gray streak across the cloth.
“She is never late,” Joe said. His voice sounded like gravel shifting under a boot.
I kept my eyes on the metal scraper, pushing it hard against the dark steel of the grill. I rubbed my left wrist with my thumb, feeling the small scar from my childhood.
“Maybe she slept in,” I said.
