There are two cars and an old pickup truck parked in front of the diner. A few cars pass on the highway, but the sound of the tires is muted by snow. Propping the box on my hip, I open the door. A blast of heat and the smell of eggs fried in grease greet me. The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” crackles over a bad sound system. Two men in brown coveralls and Ray’s Machine Shop caps sit at the counter. In an orange Naugahyde booth to my left, a woman and a little boy share a chocolate sundae. Behind the counter, a waitress in a blue uniform refills a ketchup bottle from a Sam’s Club–size container. When the door closes behind me, she looks up and frowns.

I walk to the counter, my suitcase rolling beside me, and set the box on the nearest stool. “May I use your phone?” I ask, invoking the Pennsylvania Dutch inflection I’d fought so hard to eradicate.

The waitress doesn’t acknowledge me. Taking her time, she sets down the condiment and screws on the lid. Behind me, I hear the door open. I glance over, see Suggs walk in and take a seat at the other end of the counter without looking at me. For a moment, I think the waitress is going to ignore my request, then she glances my way and rolls her eyes.

“There’s a phone booth outside the convenience store in town,” she tells me.

Before I can respond, Suggs’s voice sounds from the end of the counter. “Aw, now, Dee Dee, let the girl use your phone.”

The waitress sets her hand on her hip. “They’re always coming in here to use the phone like this is their office or something and I’m their damn secretary. I ain’t no one’s secretary, and I sure don’t have to take orders from you.”

He chuckles. “Come on now. It’s cold as a well digger’s ass out there. This girl looks like she’s been on the road awhile. Why don’t you let her make her call so she can get to where she needs to go before the snow piles up?”

She glares at me and shakes her head. “No modern conveniences, my big toe. I wish you people would get your own damn phones. They’re not free, you know.” She reaches beneath the counter, produces an old cordless, and smacks it down on the counter. “I ought to charge you for it.”

“I can pay,” I tell her. “I just need to call a driver.”

“Just use the damn thing,” she snaps. “Make it quick, ’cause I got customers.”

Pulling the number of the Yoder Toter from my coat pocket, I dial. I feel the waitress and the two men watching me as I wait for someone to pick up. Just when I think no one’s going to answer, a gruff female voice answers. “’Lo?”

“This is Kate Miller. I’m Amish and I need a ride to Roaring Springs.”