“On me.

The diner across the lot’s open.”

We crossed the parking lot and slid into a corner booth by the front window.

The red vinyl seat squeaked under me.

The table smelled of lemon cleaner and burnt toast.

A waitress put two ceramic mugs down between us.

She poured black coffee from a glass pot and left a little metal pitcher of milk.

Glenn added exactly two drops of milk to his coffee, the way our father always had.