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out farther down the street that read Nails. A couple of young women jogged around the park, and farther down the street an elderly man walked his dog. She turned onto a side street, and right between a dry cleaner and dog-grooming salon was a diner with the lights on and a sign in the window that read Open. Above the door in fading red paint was the name of the place—the Tin Can.
    This place hadn’t seen a renovation in a long time yet was clean and well kept. Since there was a Starbucks on the main street, she supposed this diner was seeing less action than it used to—there was only one customer. With the stools at the counter, booths covered in Naugahyde lining the wall and Formica tabletops, it had the look of a fifties greasy spoon. But a nice, warm one. It reminded her of a place she used to go with her grandpa when she was small.
    The bell jingled as she entered. “’Morning,” a man called from behind the counter.
    She took a stool right in the middle of the completely vacant counter. The man in the booth at the back of the diner had a newspaper spread out in front of him.
    â€œâ€™Morning,” she returned. “Coffee?”
    He had a cup in front of her in seconds. “Cold and wet out there, ain’t it.”
    â€œFreezing,” she said, pulling her jacket tighter.
    â€œIt should be a lot warmer by now. There’re buds on the trees and the grass is greening up. Spring’s ’bout here. I’ll let you warm up a little, then we’ll talk about some breakfast,” he said. She looked up at him. He squinted at what he could see of her face under the bill of her hat. For a moment she was confused, and then she remembered she had no eyebrows. With a self-conscious laugh, she plucked the cap off her head and exposed her bald head and naked brow. He almost jumped back in surprise. “Whoa. That’s a new look now, ain’t it?”
    â€œShocking,” she supplied, putting her cap back on.
    â€œCold, I take it.”
    â€œThat’s for sure.”
    He was a big man around sixty. Overweight, with a thick, ornery crop of yellow-gray, strawlike hair and square face and rosy cheeks—like a sixty-year-old little boy with big ears. She saw a face she could only describe as accessible. Open. He had friendly blue eyes set in the crinkles of age, a double chin and an engaging smile—one tooth missing to the back of the right side. “I got biscuits and gravy,” he said proudly.
    â€œI’m not really hungry,” she said. “Just cold.”
    â€œYou been outside long?”
    Oh-oh. He suspected she was homeless. The army surplus fashion, the backpack, the ball cap. “No. Well, maybe a little. I’ve a room at that roadside place about six blocks from here and I woke up freezing. No heat. And the motel office wasn’t open yet.”
    â€œBehind that scrap heap and junkyard?”
    â€œThat’s the one.”
    â€œCharlie is not generous with his guests,” the man in the booth said with a heavy Spanish accent. “You should say he give you the night free.”
    â€œHe should,” the man behind the counter said. “But he won’t. They don’t come much tighter than Charlie.”
    The man in the booth folded his paper, stood up and stretched. Then he took an apron off a hook and put it on. Ah, the cook, she realized. “Um—are you done with that paper?” she asked him.
    â€œHelp yourself, mija. ” He proceeded around the counter to the grill and began heating and scraping it. The sounds of breakfast being started filled the diner and soon the smells followed. Jennifer settled herself into the same booth so she could spread the paper out in front of her.
    A little while passed, then the owner brought the coffeepot to her. “Have any interest in breakfast yet?” he asked.
    â€œReally, I’m not very hungry.”
    â€œYou don’t mind me saying