The town emerges from the fields and the trees and the blue sky. I drive in on Main Street once again, and the town is every bit as quiet as it was when you and I arrived. I half expect to see a rolling tangle of tumbleweed blow past. I think about stopping at one of the churches, but I pass each one. The diner is still calling me.

Somehow, though, the air changes as I pull into the diner’s parking lot. I don’t know if it’s because I’m alone or if the chilly air of my favorite season is reviving my spirits, but I feel a lightness there as I park. The sun glares bright off the glass, and when I get out of the car, I can smell the greasy fare of my teenage years: French fries cooking and hamburgers on the grill.

Inside, the counter is fifty percent occupied, and there’s almost a busy hum to the place. I walk behind the stools and make my way to what I still think of as my booth. The sticky floor squeaks under my shoes, and the sound brings a smile to my face. This crazy old diner. So many memories.

Why am I here? I feel deep in my soul that I’m here for a reason. That this is precisely where I should be. But why?

The same waitress we had before comes to the booth, and she seems downright pleasant. I wonder if she has changed or if it’s my mood that’s changed the way I see her. I order a burger and fries and watch the door swing behind her as she goes back to the kitchen.

Seated at the counter are a few distinct groups: three old men hunch together and take turns talking, smiling at each other; two businessmen nod at each other’s advice; at the far side of the diner sit the three men who were here when Pearl and I first arrived. The bell above the door rings, and two women each wrangle a stroller through the swinging door. One of the businessmen gets up and holds the door. The two women find a booth right inside the door and place their respective children on the bench seat beside them. The children are small, maybe two or three years old, and they stand there staring out the glass, putting everything they can find in their mouths.

So there are children in Nysa.

The door swings open, and the waitress brings out my food. In that flash of a moment when the door is open, I can see into the kitchen. The shelves are full of supplies, and I think of Pearl’s hypothetical. The witch queen of Nysa. A thousand stairs down.

I look up at the woman, and a flash of the old darkness passes over my eyes. I realize she’s been talking to me.

“I’m sorry. Pardon me?”

“Is this everything?” She chews her gum, mouth wide open with each smack.