At seven thirty on Saturday morning, Judy walked into Patty’s Truck Stop Diner with a small folding umbrella under her arm.

She picked the corner booth right across from the register and slid her black vinyl purse onto the seat before looking up as I came over with the coffeepot.

“Emily, honey,” Judy said, leaning across the Formica while I poured black coffee into her mug.

“Look at your face.

You’re as pale as wax paper.”

“It’s audit season at the hospital,” I said, pressing my thumb against my index finger as I counted the four tables waiting for breakfast behind her.

“We have three years of Medicare claims to reconcile before the end of November.”