"Why?"
Danny looked at him then, direct, careful. "Because the lady at the house says I'm not worth the food I eat. And maybe she's right, but I got tired of listenin'."
Marge's hand went to her heart. "Oh, sugar."
"I broke a glass," Danny said quickly, like he had to explain it. "Yesterday morning. It was my fault. She said no dinner, and then no breakfast either, so I walked. And I heard the bell from your door, and I figured maybe something."
"Maybe what?" Hank said.
"I don't know. You opened the door. That's all."
Hank plated the pancake and set it in front of him.
The next night Danny came back. And the night after that.
On the fourth night, Hank came out of the office to find Marge already setting a third place at the counter: a clean plate, a fork, a tall glass.
"What are you doing?" Hank said.
"Settin' a place," Marge said.
"For who?"
"For the only nine-year-old in Millbrook who knocks on our back door, Hank. Hon, he's been here three nights runnin'. He thinks we're his restaurant now."
"He's not ours."
"Sure he's not. That's why you've been makin' double batches of soup."
Hank crossed his arms. "I always make double."
"You throw out double."
Marge laughed, a short bright sound that filled the empty diner. "Hank Callahan, you old marshmallow. You're runnin' a charity kitchen out of your back door and you can't even say so."
"I am not."
"You fed that boy three nights straight and you set the milk out before he knocks."
"I set the milk out because it needs to warm up."
"Oh, it needs to warm up?" Marge patted his arm. "Sugar, you got a soft heart the size of this grill."
"I do not have a soft heart."
"You cried at a dog food commercial last month."
"I had somethin' in my eye."
"Mm-hm." Marge picked up her rag. "Ellen always said you were the softest man she ever met."
Hank's face changed at Ellen's name. He turned back to the grill.
"She talked too much," he muttered.
"She talked just right," Marge said gently.
The knock came at ten past ten, three soft taps, right on time. Danny slipped in, wetter than usual. He climbed onto the stool and stared at the set plate and the straight-lined fork.
"You knew I was comin'," he said.
"We hoped," Marge said.
Pete was at the line, quiet as furniture, his face red from the grill heat. He flipped a stack of bacon, looked at Danny's plate, and without a word or a glance at anyone, he slid two extra slices onto the boy's eggs. Danny stared at them.
"I didn't order bacon," he said.
Pete didn't look up. "It's on the plate."
"But I didn't order it."
Pete shrugged one shoulder and went back to the fryer.
Danny looked at Hank. "Why are you all bein' nice to me?"
The question hung in the steam and the warm light. Marge stopped wiping. Hank put down his spatula, wiped his hands on his apron, and walked over to stand in front of the boy, folding his arms.
"Eat," Hank said.
Danny blinked. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're gettin' tonight."
"Marge," Danny said, turning. "Why?"
Marge smiled. "Because you're a hungry kid at our door, sugar. That's the whole reason."
"That can't be the whole reason."
"Why not?" Marge said. "Somebody fed me once when I was your size."
Danny looked down at the eggs, the extra bacon, the chocolate milk. He picked up his fork, and this time he ate slow, like he had time, like the plate wasn't going anywhere.
"You're weird," he said through a mouthful, and Hank snorted.
"You're the one knockin' on back doors, kid."
"Your door opens."
"Your point?"
Danny smiled, a real one, small and quick. "Nothin'. Just sayin'."
Hank went back to the grill. Marge refilled the milk glass before it was half empty. Danny kept eating while the rain fell outside the back door, and inside the warm, bright Blue Plate it was starting to feel like somebody's home.
Chapter 3: The Barkers
The kitchen clock ticked louder than the radiator, and Danny sat very still in his chair, watching his hands on the tablecloth. The smell of beef stew filled the whole room. His plate sat on the counter by the sink, empty, face down, the way Mrs. Barker had set it there an hour ago.