He didn’t argue again.
Instead, he picked up the fork with hands that trembled slightly and took a careful bite, as if testing whether it was real. The way he ate—slowly at first, then with growing urgency—told Elena more than any words could have. This wasn’t someone looking for a free meal. This was someone who hadn’t had one in a while.
For a few minutes, the diner returned to its usual rhythm, or something close to it. The rain continued outside, steady and unrelenting. A couple at the counter spoke in low voices. Someone laughed too loudly at something that wasn’t particularly funny.
And then the owner noticed.
Gerald Dawson had a way of moving through the diner that made people straighten up without realizing why. He wasn’t a large man, but he carried himself with a kind of rigid authority that filled the space around him. When his eyes landed on the booth in the back, on the plate that shouldn’t have been there, his expression hardened almost immediately.
