My father looked at me, surprised. "The diner? Lyra, your shift doesn't begin for another two hours, and the management doesn't like families loitering in the booths."
"Mitch is reasonable, Dad," I said, keeping my tone completely authoritative. "I'll talk to him. I’ll resume my shift early, and we can figure out our next step from the back terminal. It’s warm, it's dry, and it’s better than sitting on concrete."
Left with absolutely no other variables in the equation, my father silently nodded. He hoisted the two massive laundry sacks onto his broad, stooped shoulders, his face a mask of quiet, burning humiliation as he walked out into the pouring rain, shielding my mom with his body as we began the long, silent trek toward the neon glow of the diner.
The interior of The Rusty Spoke wa
