“I know, Pearl. I know.”

“Do you really believe me? Do you really believe that some of my stories are real?”

To be honest, I don’t know what to think about your stories. You’re so earnest when you tell them. I know you were making up this one about the waitress, but I still find myself wishing I could search the back room of the diner, check the ketchup bottles, make sure there are no secret passageways to the underworld.

“There’s a lot in this world I don’t understand, Pearl.”

You nod, but you take your hand from mine gently, and I can feel you withdrawing.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” she says. “This is really the same town where you grew up? This is where you met Grandma and where my daddy was born?”

“I don’t know, Pearl, I have to be honest. It’s the same town where I grew up, but it’s not the same. It feels different.”

“How’s it different?”

“It’s quieter, for one thing. People used to take care of things, but now the buildings are falling down.” I pause. “It’s kind of sad.”

You are staring through the window again. I reach up and touch my knot, and I wish I would have sat so that it was facing the wall and not the inside of the diner. It seems bigger again, swollen somehow. I wish I could rip it off.

“It’s a nice place,” you say. “It’s quiet, but I like that. It’s not like the city.”

I chuckle. “No, nothing like that.”

“Did you come here a lot?” you ask.

“You mean to the diner?”

“Yeah.”

“Once my friend Tom had his license, we came here all the time. This place was open twenty-four hours. You know your grandma Mary? Well, her mom worked here. I guess she would be your great-grandma.”

I hadn’t thought of that before. Considering all the generations you’ve missed out on makes me so sad I could cry right there in the diner.

“She used to give us free French fries. We almost always came here late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. Usually to this booth, unless it was taken.”

“Tell me about her again,” you say.

The cowbell rings, and everyone’s head swings to see who came in. Another man. I guess he’s about my age, but something about him seems older too. Worn. He has a long face and short hair, and his clothes aren’t business formal, but they’re sharp. A button-up shirt is tucked into suit pants, all held together with a classy belt. He pulls reading glasses from his pocket as he makes his way to the end of the bar opposite us, as far away as he could be from the other three sitting there.

A silence settles in the diner. The three men, who had at some point started chatting, are immediately silent. The waitress comes out, and I see her glance toward the new arrival before spinning around and going right back in, timing the swing of the door. I check to see if you notice the presence the man brought when he came in, but you’re staring out through the glass again.