A woman with chestnut waves pulled into a loose bun moves with practiced ease, her movements quick but unhurried. Her apron, a deep mocha color with The Honey Drop logo stitched in gold, is dusted with flour, and there’s a smudge of what might be coffee or chocolate near her elbow.

“Welcome to The Honey Drop. What can I get for ya?”

I scan the menu written in chalk above her head. “A coffee—just black—and, um, one of those blueberry scones.”

Delilah, as her nametag says, nods and moves to pour the coffee while I fish a crumpled bill out of my pocket. I glance around, taking in the small but lively space. The wooden tables are worn smooth from years of use, each with a tiny vase of fresh flowers. In the corner, an elderly man reads a newspaper while a group of teenagers huddles by the window, laughing over something on the phone. It’s not bustling, but it’s alive.

As I wait, the conversation between two women seated near the counter catches my attention. One is knitting something vibrant and patterned while the other gestures animatedly, her hands moving like punctuation marks.

“I told her she’d regret planting the tomatoes so close to the zucchini,” the gesturing woman says, shaking her head with mock exasperation. “Now her garden looks like a jungle.”

“She’ll learn,” the knitter replies, a small smile playing on her lips. “Trial and error, like the rest of us.”

Delilah sets the coffee and scone in front of me. “Would you like anything else? We have egg sandwiches,” she offers.

“Umm . . .” I look at the bills I have and shake my head. I can only afford so much. After this, I have to search for the motel and see what rates they have—that I can afford. Then, look for a seasonal job. “Nah, that’s fine.” I hand her the bills.

She gives me a warm smile. “You’re new to this town. It’s on the house. Sit down, I’ll bring you a sandwich.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to,” I hesitate. “I⁠—”

“You sit,” she cuts me off.

Hesitant, I take a seat on the corner. It doesn’t take her long before she brings me the sandwich and sits in front of me. “When was the last time you had a decent meal?”

Define decent, I want to say. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal since the night before I left him, almost two months. “Probably last night before taking the bus,” I lie.

“Listen.” She lowers her voice and leans closer. “This place is safe. If you need help with anything, we’re here to give you a hand.”