“Well, there’s other stuff than that, darlin’.  Fr-instance, my favorite thing is the hashbrowns.  If you get em’ triple scattered all the way you never had anything so good.”

“All right.”

“So you want to try it?”

“All right.”

“And you still want all that other stuff, too?”

“Yes.”

When Brianna the waitress is gone, Luther leans back against the orange-cushioned booth.  He tries not to dwell on how severely disappointed he is that the Waffle House doesn’t serve pancakes.  How did he miss that?  The waitress probably thinks he’s stupid now.  Perhaps she should join the others in the trunk.

Numerous signs adorn the walls.  While he waits for his Coke he reads them:

Cheese ‘N Eggs: A Waffle House Specialty

You Had a Choice and You Chose Us.  Thank you.

Bert’s Chili: Our Exclusive Recipe

America’s Best Coffee

By the time his food arrives the first inkling of dawn is diffusing through the starfilled sky.

“You tell me how you like them hashbrowns,” Brianna says.  “Pancakes, that’s a good one.”

The triple scattered all the way hashbrowns taste like nothing Luther has ever eaten.  The bed of shredded fried potatoes is covered in melted cheese, onions, chunks of hickory-smoked ham, Bert’s chili, diced tomatoes, and slices of jalapeno peppers.  He likes it better than pancakes and when Brianna brings him a refill of vanilla Coke he thanks her for the recommendation.  No longer is he ashamed for ordering pancakes in a restaurant specifically called Waffle House.

Luther sips the vanilla Coke, briefly at peace, watching the sky revive through the fingerprinted glass.

Things are progressing famously.

How could the kidnapping of both Karen Prescott and Elizabeth Lancing not grab Andrew’s attention, wherever he is hiding?

As he starts to leave Luther notices a man of sixty-five or seventy facing him two booths down, his sallow face frosted with white stubble, eyes bloodshot and sinking, staring absently out the window, a cigarette burning in his hand.

There is a transfer truck parked outside and based on the man’s J.R. Trucking hat and hygienic disrepair Luther assumes he’s the truck driver.

He senses the man’s loneliness.

“Good morning,” Luther says.

The trucker turns from the window.

“Morning.”

“That your rig out there?”

“Sure is.”

“Where you headed?”

“Memphis.”

“What are you hauling?”

“Sugar.”

The old man drags on his cigarette, then squashes it into an untouched egg yolk.

“Gets lonely on the road, doesn’t it?” Luther says.

“Well, it certainly can.”

He doesn’t begrudge the man’s curt replies.  They don’t spring from discourtesy but rather a desolate existence.  Had he more to say he would.

Luther slides out of the booth, zips his sweatshirt, and nods goodbye to the trucker.

The man raises his coffee mug to Luther, takes a sip.

At the cash register Luther pays for his breakfast and then gives Brianna the waitress an additional ten dollar bill.

“See that old man sitting alone in the booth?  I’m buying his breakfast.”