The man in the corner booth had been turning the same menu for seven minutes when Emily Parker noticed that he was holding it upside down.
She noticed because she had spent most of her life watching people pretend they did not need help.
Her mother had done it with hospital bills.
Her younger brother had done it when he lost his hearing in one ear after a childhood infection.
Emily had done it every morning for the last three years when she told herself that another double shift was perfectly manageable.
The diner was called The Lantern, although its red sign had stopped glowing after midnight sometime during the previous winter.
It occupied a narrow storefront in a neighborhood outside Providence, Rhode Island, between a locksmith and a florist who only opened on Saturdays.
Rain tapped against the windows while the breakfast crowd fought for the last dry parking spaces.
Emily carried two plates of eggs past the corner booth and watched the stranger turn the menu again.
His sunglasses were dark enough to reflect the ceiling lights.
His brown jacket was clean but old, with one cuff repaired using thread that did not match.
An ivory-handled walking cane rested against his knee.
He had not touched the water the hostess had brought him.
Emily delivered the eggs and returned before her manager could summon her back to the counter.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.
The man raised his head toward her voice.
“I cannot see the menu, sweetheart,” he admitted.
“Would you tell me what is good?”
Emily pulled the chair opposite him back a few inches but remained standing.
“Our cook makes excellent blueberry pancakes, and the potato hash is better than it sounds.”
“Better than it sounds is a dangerous standard.”
His dry humor made her smile.
“The hash comes with peppers, caramelized onions, and two eggs.”
“Does the coffee still taste like somebody threatened it with a coffee bean?”
Emily paused.
“Have you eaten here before?”
“Not in a very long time.”
She described the complete breakfast menu, including prices, sides, and the dishes that contained nuts.
He listened without interrupting, although his hands moved along the edge of the table as if following the shape of her words.
“Two eggs, scrambled, toast, and whatever jam you would serve your own grandfather,” he decided.
“Strawberry,” Emily said.
“Then strawberry it is.”
When she turned toward the kitchen, her manager intercepted her beside the cash register.
