“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
I made coffee.
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I sat opposite him.
“May I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Why the diner?”
“Which reason?”
“The real one.”
He considered the question.
“It’s predictable.”
“I figured.”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“The people are unpredictable.”
I smiled.
“That usually bothers you.”
“Sometimes.”
He ran his thumb along the edge of an envelope.
“But people here are unpredictable in a predictable place.”
I thought about that.
It made perfect sense.
“Did you know Same Table would become all this?”
“No.”
“What did you think would happen?”
“Tyler would come back.”
That answer nearly destroyed me.
At eight years old, Mason hadn’t been trying to create a movement.
He wanted one hurting teenager to return for pancakes.
Everything else had grown from there.
I looked at the box.
“Any favorite letters?”
He handed me one.
“Read.”
It was from a woman named Angela.
