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and I missed supper. I bet you did, too.”
    She inhaled, like she was remembering to breathe. “Yeah. Some coffee probably wouldn’t hurt, either.”
    We pulled into a greasy spoon called Ginger’s, drawn in by a billboard boasting “All night breakfast and burgers! Never closed since 1961!”
    The night was still young, so the place was noisy and crowded. We stood in front of the battered hostess podium until an unsmiling woman swooped in and acknowledged us with a terse nod, grabbed a couple of greasy plastic menus, and towed us into the fray.
    “Can we have that booth by the window?” I asked. She changed course in mid-stride, slapped the menus down hard on the table, and left without a word.
    “I think she likes me,” I said, sliding into the orange vinyl splendor of our booth. A tiny laugh escaped Anne’s lips with a sound that could almost have been a sob. She settled back into the booth and some of the tension left her face.
    The coffee started coming as soon as we sat down, which was the second sign of a truly great diner, the first being surly-but-efficient service and the third having to do with heavenly pie coming out of a pit of a kitchen whose grease accumulation was now a structural feature. The coffee tasted surprisingly good to me, but that might only be because I’ve been drinking nothing but my own for the last couple of years.
    I ordered a cheeseburger with a side of hash browns — you never eat at a roadside diner without getting the hash browns — and Anne got some kind of egg white omelet with broccoli in it called the Guiltless Pleasure. I’m sure the name was half right.
    While we waited for our food, I kept an eye on our car, which was easy from the booth by the window. I didn’t expect any trouble, but I’d look pretty stupid falling for the same trick twice in one night.
    Anne excused herself to go to the restroom, so I spent my time alternating between watching the car and the bathroom door at the rear of the restaurant.
    All around me people were sharing meals at crowded tables. The sudden sound of laughter would occasionally ring out clearly over the general din, granting the shabby diner a more festive air than I would have expected from a roadside hash house. I guess life hadn’t stopped while I was hiding out on my farm after all.
    Guilt nudged me because I felt good sitting here about to share a meal with another human being, surrounded by happy, energetic people. This feeling of guilt was born of … what? Penance for feeling anything but grief? Loyalty to the past? Cowardice? I honestly didn’t know. Withdrawing from the world hadn’t been a choice, it had been a straight, inevitable path. For the first time in five years, I felt the tiniest twinge of regret about my decision to end my time in the world.
    Anne and the food arrived at the same time, and for a few minutes there was only eating and nodding at each other with full mouths and raised eyebrows. As I expected, the hash browns were outstanding. The cheeseburger was good, too, especially since it had more bacon on it than any of the breakfasts I could see.
    “I can’t believe you’re eating that,” said Anne.
    I shook the softball-sized burger at her, making the greasy bun flop. “This is what we used to call food. That stuff you’re eating would make a monk cry.”
    She rolled her eyes at me, which I took as a sign that she was feeling a little better.
    We made small talk while we ate. I figured that when she was ready to talk about more serious things, she’d bring it up on her own. We were waiting for a couple of slices of pie when the dam broke.
    “I’ve been going over what happened tonight in my head, over and over again. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
    I didn’t say anything. I’m sure it would have sounded good to tell her that it would be okay, and that eventually she would stop thinking about it, but that’s never been true for me. If anything, some scenes carve themselves a permanent