I did not wait for the screen to light up with a reply. I shifted the truck into reverse, backed out onto the dark county road, and left them to their dinner.
The diner off Highway Eighty-Four was nearly empty at nine o’clock. A single string of green Christmas lights blinked in the window, casting a dull glow over the laminate counter.
I sat in the corner booth, still wearing my heavy winter coat. The smell of frying onions and old coffee filled the narrow room.
A tired waitress with a silver name tag that read Martha set a paper napkin in front of me.
“Just the pecan pie,” I said.
She nodded, scribbling on her pad without looking up. “We have warm apple too, if you change your mind.”
“Pecan is fine,” I said.
I adjusted the silver strap of my mother’s watch, sliding the metal clasp a fraction of an inch up my wrist. It was a habit from my years in the Army, a way to anchor myself when the ground started to shift.
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