Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
The laminate of the counter felt cool and slightly sticky under his sleeves as he leaned forward, his eyes tracking the movement behind the cash register. It was precisely eleven-thirty, and the first wave of the lunch crowd was beginning to filter through the door, bringing the dry warmth of the radiator steam and the sharp squeak of wet shoes on the linoleum.
Above the counter, the hand-painted chalkboard menu still listed the five dollar and fifty cent price of the special breakfast plate, though the white chalk was smeared at the edges from years of damp green rags wiping the border. Carter watched the steam rise from a fresh pot of dark roast, his fingers tracing the edge of his cup while he waited for his shift manager to emerge from the back office.
A young woman carrying a faded diaper bag over her shoulder led two small boys toward the register, their eyes wide as they stared at the rotating pie case near the entrance. The mother’s coat was thin, the hem frayed where it dragged against her boots, and she kept a tight grip on the collar of her younger son’s blue sweater.
