Betty, the owner of Betty’s Diner, never asked anymore.
She just placed my steak in front of me, Anna’s across from me, set down two glasses of water, and touched my shoulder once before walking away.
But this Friday was different.
Rain beat against the windows. The neon sign outside flickered red and blue over the wet street. A small American flag hung above the counter beside a faded photo of Betty’s husband in uniform.
The woman at the door looked like she had been walking for miles.
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