Dozens of times a day, Roy patted his pocket for his keys with an irrational lurch of terror that somehow they wouldn’t be where they were since the last time he’d panic-checked. The loaded truck was literally all he had. But he handed this woman his keys without hesitation.

The waitress came over, one eyebrow already high with skepticism. She looked between Roy and the woman, back and forth more times than could be mistaken for anything other than making a point. She wasn’t buying it, whatever it was that was happening here, and she wanted them to know it from the outset.

“What can I get you . . . two?”

“I’ll have an iced tea,” said the woman.

“And for you?” The you was the anchor of the waitress’s doubt, and she let the eyebrow inflect it for her.

Roy shook his head.

“Just get something,” the woman said through gritted teeth.

“But . . . I was going to get a scratch ticket. I don’t have enough.”

The woman he’d shot closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose. “Just bring two teas, please. Thank you.”

The waitress stalked away with a semi-scowl and turned back to show it one more time in case Roy had missed it somehow every time he was in here. She disappeared into the back.

The woman across from him rolled her eyes to the ceiling and did the slow breath again.

The worst feeling in the world wasn’t being hated. It was being tolerated. It burned in Roy’s face.

“So are you related to him?” she asked.

“To who?”

She blinked at him.

Roy felt as if he were swimming in quicksand just to think. “Oh! John? Right. Of course, John. I’m sorry. No! I mean, I’m sorry that I said . . . don’t scream. I didn’t mean to say it.”

She was just looking at him. Blank as a wiped chalkboard.

A hot tiredness slid over him. He let his head dip down and watched the dots in the pattern on the Formica tabletop blur together. “You said you would scream if I said I was sorry. And, no, I’m not related to him.”

“Then why are you here? What all do you do for him?”

“I don’t know your name.” He didn’t have a good answer for her question, and that he didn’t know her name was bugging him. So many terrible things tied to this, and she was right here, not at all as John had said. A stranger, but more important than any random person should ever be to another. Back from the dead. After everything, it seemed wrong not to know her name.

“You wouldn’t know my name, would you? It’s not really necessary in your line of work, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”