Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
By half past eight, the morning sun was struggling to pierce the gray clouds over Springfield, leaving the vestibule in a dull shadow.
Carter walked toward the front doors to stretch his legs, finding Henry carefully placing a yellow plastic wet-floor sign near the threshold.
“Looks like frost by midnight,” Carter said, leaning against the door frame.
Henry adjusted the sign by an inch, ensuring it was perfectly parallel to the brass door sill.
“The radio said the temperature will drop fast after sunset, sir,” Henry said, his polite tone never wavering.
“Your home heater running alright?” Carter asked.
Henry kept his eyes on the floor, his hand lingering on the plastic sign.
“A person has to keep their car running for ten minutes every hour just to keep the glass from freezing over on the inside,” Henry said.
Carter stood still, the words registering slowly in his mind.
Why would a seventy-one-year-old man be warming his car in the middle of the night?
“That uses a lot of gas,” Carter said.
“It does, sir,” Henry replied, looking out at the gravel parking lot where a faded 2004 Buick sedan sat parked in the far corner.
