She turned and walked into the dark back aisle between the tall metal filing cabinets.

At two fifteen Arthur met me in a corner booth at the Oakridge Diner, down the street from the strip mall.

The smell of vegetable soup and fried onions filled the little room.

Arthur ordered a bowl of soup and two cups of weak black coffee, sliding one heavy ceramic mug across the Formica table to me.

“Eat something, Serena,” he said, laying his wire-rimmed glasses next to his paper napkin.

“You’re eating for two now.”