She couldn’t get close to the compound; they had it watched around the clock. But Rainy didn’t want anything to do with the compound; she didn’t want to see the pale cream walls or smell the fry oil that permeated the air. Everything in this shithole town was owned in some way by Taured. He supported them and they supported him. If she wanted to know things, she’d have to find someone willing to talk.

Main Street was deserted, but there were a few cars parked outside the diner. The one-story yellow brick building—the old diner had a new name: the Canary. She wondered if they named it that so they wouldn’t have to bother painting the outside.

Rainy spat on the ground outside Red’s doors. The back of her neck stung as the sun’s rays hit her skin. It was the hottest part of the day, and no one was outside. If she went into the Canary, chances were, it would get back to Taured. Though probably her very presence in Friendship would get back to him, anyway. She touched the ends of her hair, glancing at the newly built bar. He probably owned that, too. She could walk into either building and run into Sammy, or Frank, or any one of Taured’s goons. Looking between the two, she decided on the Canary; chances were the same, and she was hungry.

The Canary, she noticed, still had the same giant bubble gum machine that had been there when she was a kid. It looked to be pretty empty, the shells from the candy coating dusting the bottom. The breakfast counter looked the same, too: a trucker in a red flannel slouched over his plate, an old man with a shiny egg for a head reading a novel and drinking coffee. A young couple sat in a booth across from the breakfast bar wearing matching Las Vegas hats: tourists on a road trip. Rainy sat at the breakfast bar a few seats down from the old man. A young server came over, a guy maybe in his twenties but not quite; he still had a smattering of acne across his chin. His name tag said Derek.

Rainy ordered a coffee and a large stack of pancakes from Derek and settled back to study the place. It had undergone a little face-lift: the paint and posters were different, but other than that it looked to be the same old place. She sipped the coffee Derek brought her and looked at the old guy. He wasn’t wearing glasses as he read his novel; she was impressed. He was pushing seventy at least. He’d talk to her, she knew it; that’s what old-timers did.

“That stuff will kill you,” he said, putting his book down and picking up his mug. He was referring to the fake sugar she was pouring into her coffee.