Chapter 1: The Stormy Night
The rain hammered against the plate glass windows of Brenda’s Diner, blurring the neon lights of the parking lot into smeared streaks of red and blue. Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee and lemon floor cleaner. Martha Jenkins rubbed her lower back, wincing as a sharp jolt of arthritis shot through her spine. At fifty-eight, a twelve-hour shift on her feet felt more like a marathon than a job. She adjusted her rimless glasses, which hung on a beaded chain around her neck, and looked at the clock. It was 9:55 PM. Five minutes until closing.
"Lock it up, Martha!" Brad’s voice boomed from the back office, cutting through the hum of the refrigerator. "If you stay one minute past ten, I’m docking it from your tips. No overtime."
Martha sighed, smoothing the wrinkles of her pink uniform. She hated the way Brad spoke to her, as if twenty years of loyalty to this establishment meant nothing. She grabbed her keys and shuffled toward the front door. The diner was empty, save for the ghosts of the dinner rush. As she reached for the "Open" sign to flip it, movement outside caught her eye.
Huddled under the narrow awning, a figure was pressed against the brick wall. He was shaking violently. The storm was unseasonably cold for October, the kind of rain that soaked through to the bone in seconds. Martha squinted through the glass. It was a man, elderly, with a long, unkempt white beard and a tattered army-green jacket that looked three sizes too big. He wasn't begging; he was just trying to survive the downpour.
Martha’s heart ached. She thought of her late husband, who had always said you could judge a person’s soul by how they treated those who could do nothing for them. She looked back at the kitchen. Brad was still in the office, likely counting the till or watching sports on his phone. The strict "No Loitering" policy was Brad’s golden rule. Breaking it was a fireable offense.
The man outside coughed, a racking sound that Martha could hear even through the thick glass. He wrapped his arms around himself, his face pale and gaunt. Martha looked at the unsold meatloaf sitting under the heat lamp on the counter—perfectly good food destined for the dumpster in exactly three minutes. She couldn't do it. She couldn't just lock the door and leave him there.
With a trembling hand, she unlocked the deadbolt. The click sounded like a gunshot in the quiet diner. She pushed the door open just a crack. "Sir?" she whispered into the wind. "Come inside. Just for a minute." As the man stepped in, dripping water onto the checkered floor, Martha felt a chill on the back of her neck. She turned around slowly, hoping the office door was still closed, but the red light of the security camera in the corner blinked ominously, staring right at her.
