Chapter 1 — The Last Table
At seventeen, Jake Miller had already learned something most adults took years to understand:
Sometimes, having very little makes you notice what other people are missing.
Jake worked six evenings a week at Miller's Garage & Diner, a small roadside restaurant attached to an old automobile repair shop on the edge of town.
It wasn't glamorous.
He wiped tables, carried boxes, washed dishes, took out the trash, and occasionally helped the mechanics when they needed an extra pair of hands.
But Jake didn't complain.
He was saving every dollar he could.
His mother had been struggling since his father died two years earlier, and Jake had promised himself that he would help her pay the bills.
That Friday evening, business was unusually slow.
Jake was sweeping beneath the last table when the bell above the front door rang.
An elderly man walked inside.
He wore a faded brown coat, worn boots, and a baseball cap that had clearly seen better decades.
He looked around the nearly empty restaurant before choosing a seat near the window.
Jake approached him.
"Evening, sir. Can I get you something?"
The man glanced at the menu.
"Coffee."
"Anything to eat?"
The man hesitated.
"How much is the cheapest meal?"
Jake paused.
"Soup and bread. Four dollars."
The man counted the coins in his palm.
"I'll take that."
Jake nodded.
"Coming right up."
When he returned with the food, the man smiled.
"Thank you, son."
Jake noticed the man's hands.
They were trembling.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
The man laughed softly.
"Young people always ask too many questions."
Jake smiled.
"Old people always say they're fine when they're not."
The man's smile disappeared for a moment.
Then he laughed.
"You might be right."
His name was Walter.
Jake learned that much during their short conversation.
Walter ate slowly.
When he finished, he placed four dollars on the table.
Then he stood.
Jake noticed something else.
Walter's coat pocket was empty.
No wallet.
No phone.
Nothing.
Jake followed him toward the door.
"Mr. Walter?"
The old man turned.
Jake reached into his own pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill.
"Take this."
Walter stared at it.
"I can't."