The storm rolled in faster than any forecast said it would. By the time I nosed my car into the diner lot, the world was already a quiet, white blur. I wasn’t planning to open—who’d be out in this?—but then I saw the line of eighteen-wheelers idling along the shoulder, yellow headlights cutting through the flurries, men huddled against the wind.
One of them knocked. Frost in his beard, eyes rimmed with road-tired red. “Ma’am, any chance we could get a coffee? Roads are closed. We won’t make the next stop.”
I hesitated. Running the place alone is hard on the best day, and a dozen hungry drivers sounded like a tidal wave. Then I heard my grandmother in my head: when in doubt, feed people. I flipped the deadbolt, flooded the room with light, and waved them in.
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