The rain had been falling for almost three hours when twelve-year-old Noah Carter finally stopped pretending he was not hungry.
At first, he had tried to treat the ache inside his stomach like every other uncomfortable thing that had happened since morning.
Ignore it.
Keep walking.
Keep his little sister moving.
Think about something else.
It worked for cold feet.
Sometimes.
It worked for the wet fabric rubbing against his shoulders beneath the straps of the old canvas backpack.
It worked for the embarrassment of people staring when he and Lily stood beneath store awnings too long.
Hunger was harder.
Especially when they reached the diner.
The place sat beside an old highway outside Phoenix, squeezed between a tire shop and a gas station with three pumps under a faded canopy.
A red neon sign glowed behind rain-streaked glass.
Inside were booths.
Coffee.
Hot food.
People who looked dry.
Noah stood beneath the narrow metal awning with Lily pressed against his side and watched a waitress carry a plate past the window.
Steak.
Fries.
Toast.
He could almost smell it through the glass.
Lily smelled it too.
Her fingers tightened around his sleeve.
“Noah?”
He looked down.
She was seven.
Small for seven.
Her long brown hair hung in wet strings around her cheeks because the elastic holding her ponytail had snapped somewhere near the bus station.
Her oversized brown jacket had once belonged to Noah.
Before that it had belonged to their father.
Everything they owned seemed to have belonged to someone else first.
“What?”
“Are we going inside?”
Noah looked through the window again.
“Maybe.”
Lily’s eyes moved toward the tables.
“Do we have money?”
He hated that question.
Not because she asked it often.
Because she almost never did.
Lily had learned too young when not to ask for things.
Noah shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.
He found two coins.
A quarter.
A dime.
Thirty-five cents.
Not enough for coffee.
Probably not enough for anything.
“We’ll figure something out.”
Lily nodded.
She trusted him when he said things like that.
That made lying worse.
Noah reached for the door.
Then stopped.
At the largest corner table sat six bikers.
Not weekend riders wearing clean leather and expensive sunglasses.
These men looked like they belonged to the motorcycles lined beneath the diner awning.
Heavy boots.
Weathered denim.
Tattooed forearms.
Leather vests.
Thick beards.
Hard faces.
Men other customers noticed without openly staring.
The biggest one sat with his back partly toward Noah.
He was broad enough that the diner chair looked too small beneath him.
Close-cropped dark hair streaked with gray.
Heavy beard.
One deep scar through his left eyebrow.
A black leather vest over a plain black shirt.
Silver rings.
His plate held a thick steak, fries, eggs, and toast.
He had eaten maybe half.
Noah looked at the food.
Then away.
Lily whispered:
“They’re scary.”
“Don’t stare.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m checking.”
“For what?”
Noah had no answer.
He opened the door.
A bell chimed overhead.
Warm air struck them.
Then the smell.
Coffee.
Fried onions.
Butter.
Meat.
Lily’s stomach made an audible sound.
Noah heard it.
So did the elderly woman sitting near the entrance.
She glanced at Lily, then at Noah, then quickly looked away.
Noah understood that look.
Pity was often just embarrassment wearing kinder clothes.
They stepped inside.
Water dripped from Noah’s hoodie onto the black-and-white tile.
The waitress behind the counter saw them.
She was maybe forty.
Blonde hair tied back.
Blue uniform.
Name tag that said Mara.
She looked first toward the door behind them as though expecting an adult.
Nobody entered.
“You kids okay?”
Noah nodded too quickly.
“Yeah.”
“Where are your parents?”
Another question he hated.