You don't. Your only destination is a rented apartment in Silver Lake with a window that rattles when the wind picks up, and a fridge that hums too loud. It's temporary. Everything here is.

Your mom called seven hours ago from the ICU in Phoenix, and you got on the first flight out. She's stable now—your aunt and uncle are taking shifts at the hospital. The surgery's scheduled for Thursday. You have four days to fill with waiting.

That's how you end up here. A 24-hour diner off Sunset Boulevard at eleven-thirty on a Tuesday night, nursing a coffee you don't want, staring at a laminated menu you've already read six times. The booth creaks when you shift. The fluorescent lights buzz like an old friend.

A waitress with tired eyes refills your cup without asking.