Chapter 2 - THE LONG WALK TO THE COUNTER
The boy let go of the wheelchair.
The sudden absence of his hand made the old woman whimper.
She lifted her face, her eyes milky and red-rimmed, staring blankly at the tabletop.
He took a step forward.
His worn sneakers squeaked softly against the black-and-white tiles.
The distance to the wooden counter was only fifteen feet.
To the boy, it looked like a vast, uncrossable desert.
He squeezed the three coins tightly in his right fist.
The metal grew warm against his sweaty palm.
The jagged edges of a dime pressed into the crease of his thumb.
He walked past a row of spinning retro stools.
The red leather tops gleamed under the overhead lights.
A waitress stood behind the counter, wiping down the laminated wood with a damp gray rag.
Her uniform was a sterile, industrial gray.
A pristine white apron was tied tightly around her waist.
Her blonde hair was pulled back into a severe, tight bun, not a single strand out of place.
She moved with mechanical precision.
Wipe, lift, fold, wipe again.
Behind her, a large American flag was pinned flat against the wall, its red and white stripes perfectly still in the dead air.
The boy stopped in front of the cash register.
The machine was a towering block of chrome and black plastic.
He was too short to see over the top of the wooden counter.
He had to stand on his tiptoes, his calves trembling under the strain.
He slowly opened his fist.
He laid the three coins onto the polished wood.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sound was microscopic against the background noise of sizzling bacon and clattering ceramic mugs.
But the waitress heard it.
Her hand stopped moving.
The damp gray rag rested motionless on the counter.
She looked down at the dull copper and silver sitting on the gleaming wood.
May you like
Then she looked over the edge of the counter, down at the boy’s dirt-streaked face.
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