The coffee was burnt. The pie case was mostly empty. The fluorescent lights hummed something just shy of a headache.

You chose a booth by the window, slide in across the cracked vinyl, and let your gaze drift out to the parking lot. A black car, gleaming under the dull afternoon light, catches your eye. A '67 Impala, immaculate, like it was driven off a showroom floor and kept that way by sheer stubbornness.

Your heart does something stupid and physical, a hard, sharp lurch against your ribs.