Later, I found out the diner had a bad rep as a teenage hooker hangout. That’s why no one called it the Day and Night. Later, I found out that they called it the Get Laid and Fight.

In a burgundy booth there were two men sitting together. One of them was Braun Stewart. He was the modeling man, and under the harsh lights, he looked creepier than when I first saw him in sunlight. His skin was pockmarked; it looked sore and pierced. He was wearing a three-piece white suit, but even a blazer and vest couldn’t make that guy classy.

His friend, Stanley, was short and pudgy with these strange, flabby lips. I know that sounds rude, but really, his lips looked like they could get up and waddle around all on their own. He was wearing a baseball cap that said Truckers Do It on the Road.

They were quite the pair, those two. Sitting together, snickering as they turned the pages of a magazine. When I walked by them, Braun called out to me.

Red, he yelled. Hey, Red. Red, red, red.

Fluorescent lights were scalding my face and the walls shuddered and I thought at any moment I was likely to puke.

I slouched over to their booth because I didn’t really know what else to do. I kept my distance, though; I didn’t want to get too close. Older men make me nervous. They always act like they’ve got something on you. Especially those two.

This is Stanley, Braun said, pointing at the shrivelly twerp. He’s just leaving. Stanley, this is Sara. She’s quite something, eh? I tried scouting her the other day.

I was surprised that the modeling guy remembered my name.

Sorry, I said, I’m not feeling well. I just want some water.

You look fine.

Well, I’m not fine. I’m—

Dying, I was about to say.

But instead, I just stood there, hovering at the edge of their table. Like a pair of flesh inspectors, they stared up at me. Sweat, I could feel sweat trickling down my back. The floor was covered with footprints, a pattern of black smears that reminded me of cavemen drawings. I looked down at the dirty pattern for a few minutes, and then I looked at the wallpaper, which was all cracked, and then I looked at a leak in the ceiling letting in a line of rain.

The two men kept staring at me, even though I’d never felt so ugly.

A country song was playing on the radio. I didn’t know who was singing. John Wayne or one of those corny ’50s guys.

From behind the curtain of hair covering my eyes, I mumbled, I was just thinking about you.

I don’t know why I said that.

What were you thinking? Braun asked.

I’m trying to get off this island, and I thought maybe you’d have some advice.