The name meant little to Naomi in that instant. It had not yet connected itself in her mind to the frail man with the wet coat, the chilled hands, and the tired eyes she had served near closing not long ago. She remembered him as someone who looked worn down by the weather and by life. She remembered the manager’s impatience. She remembered carrying over soup and bread. She remembered the five-dollar bill. She remembered placing it back into his hand.
“Guests don’t pay for kindness,” she had said.
Now the lawyer was asking her if there might be somewhere private to talk.
There was no truly private place in the diner, so they sat in booth six.
The same booth.
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