Someone changes the channel and slowly, I can feel the diner’s eyes peel from the screen to land on me, but I don’t make eye contact. I can’t. Hiding among the masses of people and blending in is my specialty.
I shove my pad and pen in my apron pocket, wondering how fast I can make a run for the door. The last thing I need is someone to recognize me and call the authorities thinking they’re ‘doing the right thing.’
Ice runs through my veins about as fast as molasses uphill, and my thoughts jumble in a tangle of knots as each one freezes. I tighten my fingers around my pen and notepad, trying to refocus my eyes, but a full-body numbness takes over until I can’t feel the paper in my hands or the pain of losing my last parent, bastard or not.
And what that means for me. I’ll need t
