I sat on the squeaky edge of the mattress and watched the red numbers on the wall clock change from 5:48 to 5:49.

By seven o’clock, Theodore was dressed in his thick blue jumpsuit, and I walked four blocks down the wet sidewalk toward the commercial strip by the highway.

The back door of the Bellevue Diner opened onto a narrow alley lined with grease drums, plastic milk crates, and stacked bread trays.

Brandon Vance stood near the dish rack in a grease-stained white apron, holding a silver coffee pot in one hand and a damp rag in the other.

His jaw was dark with two days of stubble, and his eyes looked tired in the cold morning light.