Daniel's gaze lingered on booth number four.
"That booth," he said. "By the window. Does anyone still sit there?"
"Every morning at seven," Hank said. "Woman named Gable. Sharp as a tack and twice as stubborn."
Mrs. Gable cleared her throat, loud enough to carry. "It is a good booth, young man. Best view of the parking lot in three counties."
Daniel laughed, surprised and genuine. "I'll remember that."
Hank plated the meatloaf and slid it across the counter. "Eat."
"Yes, sir," Daniel said, and the respect in it stopped Hank's hand midair.
He ate slowly, like each bite mattered. He watched Pete work the flat top and Marge wipe the counter, and kept glancing at the door, the bell, the window booth. Each time, Hank felt a strange tug in his chest.
"You know a lot about this place for a stranger," Hank said.
"I've been here before," Daniel said. "Long ago. You wouldn't remember."
Hank leaned on the counter, his knee throbbing. "Try me. I've got a good memory for faces."
Daniel met his eyes. "Do you?"
Hank straightened up. "You got business here, mister, or are you just asking questions?"
"Both, maybe," Daniel said, calm as Sunday. "Do you still make the apple pie?"
Marge stopped polishing a glass. "I make the apple pie, sugar. Always have. What about it?"
"Is it still the best pie in Ohio?" Daniel asked.
"It is the best pie in four states," Marge said, "and I will fight anyone who says otherwise."
"A slice, then," Daniel said. "Warmed up. Golden on the edges, the way the crust gets."
Hank stared at him. The coffee pot hung in his hand, forgotten.
"Everybody likes pie warm," Hank said slowly.
"Not everybody asks for the edges," Marge said, her voice gone thin around the corners. She looked at Daniel the way she looked at a bill that didn't add up.
Daniel didn't seem to notice. He was looking toward the back of the diner now, past the kitchen door.
"Back door still stick in the winter?" he asked.
Hank set the coffee pot down. "Who are you?"
"Nobody," Daniel said. "Just a man having dinner."
"You ask about my bell, my booth, my cook's pie, and my back door," Hank said, his voice dropping low. "That ain't nobody. That's somebody with a reason."
"Maybe I've got one," Daniel said. He picked up his fork, but his hand wasn't quite steady. "Maybe I'm just making sure everything's the way I remember it."
Hank came around the counter, limping, and stopped two feet from the stool. "Remember from when?"
Daniel looked up. For a moment the confidence slipped, and underneath it Hank saw something raw and young and almost frightened.
"From a long time ago," Daniel said softly. "When I was small."
Hank's breath caught. He blamed the storm, the long day, the knee. He told himself not to be a fool.
"What's your business here?" Hank asked again, quieter.
Daniel reached into the pocket of the expensive coat. Marge stepped forward fast, dish towel in her hand like a weapon.
"Easy, Marge," Hank said, without taking his eyes off the man.
But Daniel only pulled out his keys and set them on the counter while he dug for his wallet. The keys clinked on the Formica.
Marge's eyes dropped to his hands. Then to the keychain.
She squinted.
Among the keys hung a small brass key, old and dulled at the edges, the kind of key that opened a back door.
Marge went perfectly, utterly still.
Chapter 12: The Key on the Counter
The brass key made a small, solid sound when he set it down on the Formica, halfway between his coffee cup and Hank's gnarled hands. He didn't slide it across. He just let it lie there in the light.
"I told you I'd come back for you."
Hank stared at the key. Then he stared at the keychain still dangling from the stranger's fingers, the ring crowded with car keys and a tiny scratched tag that read HARVEST LINE. But it was the empty slot where the brass key had hung that Hank kept looking at.
"Danny," Hank said. It wasn't a question. It was a name he had buried alive and just found breathing.
"Hey, Hank." Daniel's voice cracked on the second word. "Surprise, huh?"
Hank's spatula clattered onto the grill. He came around the counter sideways, both hands shaking, and then he was holding Daniel's face the way you hold something that might blow away, and Daniel bent his tall frame down and let him.
"You grew," Hank whispered.
"You shrank," Daniel said, and then neither of them could talk for a while.
Marge stood frozen by the coffee station, the pot tilted, coffee darkening a clean rag. She set the pot down and crossed the room with both hands over her mouth. When she reached them she pulled her apron up and cried into it, shoulders shaking.
"Oh, sugar. Oh, my sugar boy," she said through the apron. "Look at you. Look at this suit. You look like a lawyer."
"I am not a lawyer, Marge."
"You look like one and I'm crying, so you let me say it."
The kitchen door swung open and Pete stood there in his whites, a towel over one shoulder, his face gone slack. He'd heard the quiet. Nobody's fork moved.
Pete crossed the room and wrapped one thick arm around both of them, pressing his forehead down against their shoulders. When he straightened up, his eyes were wet.
"Grew up good," Pete said. Three words from Pete.