I wondered what the inside of Baby Jane’s little mill cabin looked like. I imagined it as otherworldly, old-fashioned, like him. A place maybe with books and candles, with an old-timey bedroom set, delicate teacups. A closet full of pressed white shirts and creased gray pants.

I couldn’t live in the abandoned car. Not for long. Winter was too harsh. I wouldn’t make it past November, and even that was questionable. If the house was auctioned at the end of November, I’d be up against snow and ice already until at least April.

I went to work.

Junior had already given me all the hours he could. Most days it was just him, me, and Terri. If I couldn’t come in or I was sick, he had one other guy who filled in, an old Navy man in his seventies. I had tapped that job for about all it was worth. I needed a skill. Which meant more school, or at least more than a goddamn GED.

I wiped down all the glass salt and pepper shakers and filled them. I spent half an hour marrying the ketchup bottles so none of them looked even a little bit empty. Terri had counted her drawer and was out back having a cigarette. My face was flushed. I didn’t get paid until tomorrow, and I was ready for a cigarette and a drink myself. Then the bells clanged against the glass door, and a man I had never seen before in the diner, or even in town, came in. He scanned the empty counter, the vacant booths, and me doing closing side work, and asked if we were still open.

“Um,” I stalled. I had to try not to stare. “I mean, we’re open for another half hour,” I said, and knew that Junior would kill me if I walked back there with another order. He was already slamming pans and scraping down the grill. If he got the bleach out, I was done.

The man shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll just have some coffee.” He had a folder with him that he laid on the counter.

I wasn’t used to serving, but I grabbed a mug from the shelf below and poured slowly from the fresh full pot Terri had brewed for us as we cleaned. I looked at him as much as I could while he looked through his papers, his eyes down until I put the cup in front of him. He sat at the counter and sipped, and I went back to buffing glasses, even though my hands had a tremor. The man had long, honey-brown hair, curled at the ends, green eyes, and a soft mouth. He wore a flannel shirt that looked like it felt like butter. Fine hands, narrow wrists. When the cup was half empty, I picked up the pot.

“More?” I asked.

“Sure,” the stranger said, and smiled. His teeth were exquisite. White and straight. I thought, no one passes through Spring Falls. It’s on the way to nowhere. I almost dropped the full pot getting it back on the burner.