Chapter 5 - The Weight of Eight Dollars
The heavy metal back door creaked open, bringing with it a sharp, icy draft that cut through the diner’s warm interior. Clara stepped inside, her canvas shoes squeaking loudly against the worn linoleum tiles. She stood near the service station, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection, trying desperately to stop her teeth from chattering.
"Get those dishes off table three, Clara!" Hank barked from behind the stove, not looking up from his grill where bacon grease sputtered and popped. "And wipe down the counter! We got the lunch rush coming in twenty minutes!"
"Yes, Hank," Clara whispered, her voice faint and raspy.
She reached for a plastic bus tub sitting beneath the counter. As she bent down, her movements were slow, stiff, and painful. The cold had settled deep into her joints, making her fingers feel like thick, unresponsive pieces of wood. She lifted the tub, her hands trembling under the weight of three dirty ceramic plates and a bowl of cold gravy.
She turned around—and nearly collided with a wall of dark leather and broad shoulders.
Clara gasped, taking a quick, panicked step back, her heels catching on the edge of a floor mat. The heavy bus tub slipped from her wet fingers.
Before the plastic bin could hit the linoleum, a massive, tattooed hand shot out with blinding speed, catching the tub by its rim and steadying it in mid-air with effortless strength.
Clara looked up, her wide, bloodshot blue eyes meeting the dark, intense gaze of the large stranger. Up close, he was towering. He smelled of rain, heavy leather, cedarwood, and the faint, bitter scent of pipe tobacco. A jagged white scar ran from the edge of his left eye down into his thick beard, giving his weathered face a harsh, formidable appearance.
"Careful," Silas said softly.
"I... I'm sorry, sir," Clara stammered, her face turning crimson with embarrassment as she pulled the tub back into her own arms. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see you standing there."
"You're shaking," Silas observed, his voice low and steady.
Clara quickly averted her eyes, looking down at his worn leather boots. "I'm fine, sir. Just... just the rain. Can I get you more coffee? Or the bill?"
"What's her name?" Silas asked, ignoring her questions entirely.
Clara froze. Her blue eyes snapped back up to his face, filled with instant suspicion and a flicker of deep-seated fear. In a town where debt collectors and process servers hunted her down every week, any stranger asking personal questions was a threat.
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"Excuse me?" she asked defensively.
"Your daughter," Silas said, his voice dropping into a gentle, quiet tone that seemed entirely at odds with his terrifying physical presence. "The girl in the picture. What's her name?"
