Diane was not friends with many people. She had drifted apart from her childhood and teenage friends, because of age and changing circumstance and the high rate of mysterious disappearance and death in Night Vale. In her mid-twenties, she found herself at the funeral of what was her last remaining childhood friend (Cynthia Yin, whom she had met in Music Censorship class in third grade and who had survived three UFO attacks, a year’s incarceration by the City Council for voting incorrectly in a municipal election, and a direct encounter with a pack of street cleaners, only to die of a liver cancer which had gone undiagnosed for over a year), and she wondered whether it was worth it to have friends, to make any connections at all when the world so easily took them from her.

Since then, she had continued making friends, but they all, like Steve, were friends of circumstance. The people she worked with in the PTA. Regulars here at the Moonlite. Even the people and sentient patches of haze who often walked the same evening neighborhood route as she did, which was more of a distant nodding relationship than a friendship, but whose names she knew. (A few of them had even whispered some interesting secrets to her as they passed.)

Mostly she contented herself with Josh, who was not a friend, and was often not even friendly, but who filled her life until it couldn’t fit much else. She looked with excitement and unease to the day when he would grow old enough that her heart could empty a bit of him and there would be a space left where someone else could fit, although she couldn’t imagine who.

Anyway, Dawn was late. This was fine with Diane.

Laura, one of the regular waiters, was standing over a table, long leafy plants growing from her chest and arms and neck. The diners plucked the fruits from her branches, looking at each bright bulb for dents, smelling them for ripeness.

Diane had written down some things to talk to Dawn about. She wanted to know the obvious: how’ve you been, how’s the family, do you have a family (written in parentheses, as Diane did not want to presume that everyone has a “family”), how are you feeling, name every person you’ve ever worked with, and so on.

But this was all leading to the real reason for their conversation. Evan. Was his name Evan? She looked at her notepad. “EVAN,” it said in an unfamiliar hand.

“Evan,” Diane said aloud.

“Hey, Diane,” Laura shouted across the way, a family of five yanking blackberries and tomatoes from her sides. “Good to see you again. Somebody’ll be with you in a minute, all right?”

Diane smiled and waved. Laura was bleeding along her wooden limbs. The diners stopped taking the food from her and stared in discomfort.

“Oops, sorry about that, let me get you another server. Be right back.”