“Is that right?” Gerald says, now appearing genuinely interested. “What’s your last name? That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. Last name’s Elias. My parents had a place outside of town on Vintage Road. You know, the house up the hill, past the bridge.”

Now I can feel the man across the diner staring at me.

“Up on the top?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Well,” he mutters. “I’ll be. I know it well. I used to live down that way a little further, over on Pendrick.”

It’s a road name I’ve not thought about in forty years, but I can see it now. I know how it moves with the countryside, the bends, the dips, as it follows one of the streams.

“It’s been years since I’ve been here,” I say.

“Your folks still here?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No, sir, they are not. They both passed quite a while ago.” A sharp regret stabs me in the chest. I never came back for their funerals. After Mary died, I left everyone behind. Everyone except your father.

“May their souls rest in peace,” he says, the superstition thick in his voice.

I nod, not knowing what to say to that.

He stands there awkwardly while the waitress brings our grilled cheeses. Still he stands there, more than a little bit in the way as she tries to unload her tray.

“Need anything else?” she asks, and I glance at you but have to look away quickly so I don’t start laughing. I know you’re sizing up the woman for real now, wondering if it’s possible she might actually be a witch or a sorceress.

You clear your throat and speak in an even voice. “No thank you, ma’am.”

“We’re fine. Thanks,” I say.

She walks over to the bar and talks to the man in the shadows in hushed tones. I have a sneaking feeling they’re talking about us, and I want to stand and walk out calmly and drive away, back past Junior’s, back over the bridge, back to somewhere that isn’t here. But I don’t. We’re both hungry. And I have no other plan for you—it’s Nysa or bust.

I lift the grilled cheese and take a bite. It’s delicious. The melted cheese is hot and the bacon crunches between my teeth. I close my eyes in ecstasy.

Gerald Mills is still standing there beside the table.

“I’m sorry?” I say, not sure what he’s waiting for.

“Of course,” he says. “I should be going.” He hesitates.

“Is there something . . .” I begin, but again it all feels awkward. Why is he still here, staring at us? At you? What does he want to say that he’s not saying?

He looks nervously over his shoulder, in the direction of the man sitting at the bar. “We don’t get many visitors.”

“In the diner?” I ask, wiping my mouth with a napkin.

“In the town.” He whispers the words, and something about the faintness of his voice makes my mouth go dry.