The diner was quiet for a Friday. A few farmers hunched over their coffees at the far end, caps pulled low, trading talk about the price of feed. The air smelled of stale cigarettes, burnt coffee, and the faint sweetness of the cherry pie cooling on the counter.

The clock on the wall read 3:47 PM when the door swung open again.

He was easy to miss, at first. That was the kind of boy he was. Blond hair cut short, a little too long on top, like he'd trimmed it himself with a pair of kitchen scissors. Plain brown jacket, sleeves a touch too short. He hesitated in the doorway like he wasn't sure he was allowed inside, then ducked his head and slid onto the stool at the far end of the counter, two seats down from the farmers.