“No. The storm probably scared them off. I just hope we don’t get a rush at the last minute.” Her accent sounded less Southern than country-western: I jest hope.

“Which storm is that?”

She shifted her weight onto one foot and nodded toward the television. “Another darned tropical storm. They all come up here from Mexico, blow up along the coast. I wish they’d go somewhere else for a change. My youngest’s got to be at the hospital in Pensacola by two, so I don’t have time for another storm.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Kidneys. But he’s a tough little bastard. Six years old and he says to the doctor, ‘I’m gonna kick this thing.’ Can you imagine that?”

“I hope it goes well today.”

“It will or it won’t. Not up to me to decide. You know what you want?”

She’d decided on toast and a poached egg, but after listening to this tragic story, those items sounded so self-indulgently calorie-conscious, she couldn’t bring herself to order them. “Buttermilk pancakes,” she said. “With bacon.”

There was a rack of postcards beside the cash register on the counter, and when the waitress had gone back into the kitchen, she went over to it and picked out three. One for Gerald, one for Thomas. One—why not admit it?—for Dale. Dear Dale, she’d write. Thank you for the loan. Thank you for not calling me.

She slid back into her booth and took a pen from her purse. “Dear Dr. Berman,” she wrote, in tiny script, surprising herself. “Everything I haven’t told you—about Thomas, about Dale—it isn’t that I don’t trust you, it isn’t that I don’t believe you could help, it’s just that there’s so much I don’t want to know about myself. Can we start from scratch?”

Lucy delivered her pancakes, each nearly as wide across as the plate itself. If you were going to eat this kind of slop, you damn well better enjoy it. She smeared them with butter and poured a stream of syrup over the top until the whole mess was swimming, bacon included. As she was trying to fit a forkful into her mouth, she realized that she wasn’t alone. Tim was standing next to her booth, looking down at her with his silent, goofy grin. She pointed to the banquette opposite her with her fork.