The waitress, Marlene, was in the kitchen. The boy hesitated, then walked straight to my table.
“Sir?” he whispered. “Are you… finished with those?”
I slid the plate toward him. “Take them. Want something hot?”
He shook his head fast. “No time.”
He grabbed a handful of fries—but didn’t eat them. Instead, he turned toward the shadows near the door.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “Come on.”
Two small children stepped forward—a boy and a girl, maybe five. Soaked, shaking, painfully thin. The older boy knelt and handed them the food.
“Eat. Quickly.”
They devoured it. The older one didn’t touch a bite.
My chest tightened. I waved Marlene over. “Three burgers, shakes, whatever’s hot.”
“Sit,” I told him gently.
“We can’t,” he said, eyes locked on the window. “He’s coming.”
“Who?”
“The Bad Man,” the little girl whispered.
“My stepdad,” the boy said. “He passed out at a motel. We ran. Mom didn’t wake up.”
That sentence hit like ice.
The food came, and they ate like they hadn’t in days. The boy finally told me their names—Noah, and the twins Eli and Rose. Noah only ate once the twins were full.
Then headlights flooded the diner. A black SUV screeched into the lot.
Noah froze. “Hide,” he hissed.