Chapter 20 - The Fire at 4:30
It was 4:15 AM on a Monday morning in late August.
The valley was silent. The mist was hanging thick over the river, smelling of sweet grass and cold stones.
I unlocked the back door of the Miller & Son Diner, stepped into the dark kitchen, and hit the main light switches.
The fluorescent tubes flickered and hummed to life, illuminating the clean stainless steel, the polished prep tables, and the black obsidian griddle.
I tied my apron around my waist, double-knotting the strings behind my back.
I walked to the main gas manifold, turned the brass petcock, and clicked the igniter.
*Whoosh.*
A ribbon of clean blue flame sprang up beneath the steel, radiating its steady, dependable warmth into the quiet room.
I reached for the magnetic bar on the wall.
Beside the seasoning shakers hung the walnut-handled spatula, its stainless blade gleaming, the dark wood of the handle scarred with three tiny burns from three hundred busy morning rushes.
*To Benny. Who Kept the Fire.*
I took it down. The weight was familiar, comforting, and absolute.
Outside in the gravel lot, the first pair of headlights swept across the window blinds.
An engine died. A heavy truck door slammed shut.
Heavy work boots crunched across the gravel, heading for the front door.
I dropped two tablespoons of fresh butter onto the center of the steel. It hissed, bubbled, and filled the room with the greatest smell on earth.
The front doorknob rattled.
May you like
I turned toward the pass, set my spatula flat against the hot steel, and smiled into the empty room.
“Come on in,” I whispered to the door. “The coffee’s fresh.”