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There’s only one twenty-four hour diner in Hawkins. It’s out of the way, out on Highway 56, but every other diner closes by ten. Steve Harrington is wide awake and starving, and finds himself driving down the slick, desolate roads to Bernie’s Diner.
He thinks this idea might be a little stupid. The roads are slippery with melting ice and snow, the night is dark and starless, and the surrounding forest is thick and deadly, and Steve can only imagine the company he’ll find at a country diner at 1 am. But he had to get out of the house, out of his head, and his body carried him out into the night and into his car. And where else could he go?
He feels the car slide against his control as he turns, and he slows down further still. The road ahead is a sheet of ice, salt sparkling under the streetlights like diamonds. His eyes dart cautiously across it and into the darkness behind the streetlights, into the glimpses of dense trees, and Steve shivers to think of what’s hiding there. Once, those same trees had felt like home. Now, all the childhood memories among them were tainted with terror. He feels a strange thing like betrayal, and he returns his eyes to the road.
He drives in silence until eventually, the familiar sign looms in the distance. The streetlight just catches it, and amongst the wall of Indiana forest, opens a great gravel lot. It looks much bigger than he remembers, without all the parked cars. There’s only two other vehicles, a red Volvo and a black van parked far apart. Steve pulls up on the near side and gets out to get a good look, and he smiles a little. It’s exactly how he remembers. A long, low building perched in the gravel, with a gas station on the far right, a red open sign at the door blinks out into the darkness, welcoming travelers and nomads. On either side of the entrance are two giant rectangular windows, emitting the florescence from inside. Peeling posters, barely visible in the night, advertise Homemade pies! Breakfast! Burgers! Sandwiches! French Fries! Ice Cream! Milkshakes! The monstrous faded sign, which reads Bernie’s Diner & Motel since 1954, stands high on the roof. It looks like it hasn’t had any work done since it’s opening.
A sudden wave of nostalgia comes over him. It’s so unexpected and intense his eyes prickle, and he just stands there in the stinging cold for a long moment, staring at the dingy restaurant as if he can’t believe it. But despite it’s familiarity, there is something different about it, too—something a little grimy, a little raw. It could be that the subsequent years have left it more dilapidated than memory serves, it could be that any place seems seedier this late at night. Or it could just be Steve, and how everything looks different through the lens of adulthood.
His winter boots crunch through the wet gravel, taking him up the creaking wooden steps. The bell chimes as he comes through the door, and a fresh wave of sentimentality creeps through him like nausea as the familiar smell hits him. He instinctively stomps his feet on the mat even though there’s no snow on his boots. The floor is the same black and white checker, the counter up ahead the same fire truck red with mint green stools. A slender man sits at the counter reading the newspaper. The jukebox is in the same spot, to the right upon entering, sounding a little quiet and crackled and playing the same 50’s hits. It’s so familiar it’s surreal, like he’s suddenly ten years old again and his parents and right behind him.
A large woman appears behind the counter. She must be about forty, and her greying blonde hair is pulled into a little bun. She offers a smile that squishes up her whole face. He swears it’s the same waitress as in his memories.
“Hi, honey! Sit anywhere you’d like and I’ll be right over.”
Steve nods and mutters thanks. He turns to look around the rest of the restaurant. The whole place is lined with white tables and mint green booths and chairs. To his right is a heavyset man covered in tattoos, sitting back and sipping coffee. To Steve’s left, a couple sits across from one another, leaning across the table to discuss quietly. In one of the very back booths, another man sits alone. He’s staring right at Steve.
It’s Billy fucking Hargrove.
Steve stares at him, and Hargrove stares back. For a second, Steve wonders if he’s dreaming.
He almost turns to leave. Instead, he holds his ground and tries to read the other boy. He looks almost as alarmed as Steve feels, but a little smirk plays over his face as he watches Steve. He wonders whether he should go over there, or ignore Hargrove completely.
He wanders uncertainly down the aisle, and chooses to sit across from him at the next table. Close enough to talk if they want, far enough to have space. Hargrove’s eyes follow him.
“What are you doing here?” Steve asks as he sits.
Hargrove is slumped back against the booth, one arm draped over the table, fingers touching a white mug of coffee. Up close, he looks exhausted, but his eyes are no less wolfish. “I could ask you the same thing.”
Steve shrugs. “This is the only place around that’s open twenty-four hours.”
“And what’s a good boy like you doing out so late at night?”
Steve shakes his head, but doesn’t take the bait. “I’m starving.”
Hargrove’s lips twitch, eyes sparkling with malice. “Mommy and daddy are out of town, are they? Can’t make a meal for yourself back at the palace?”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Ok, asshole, I’ll leave you alone.” He moves to get up.
“Not so fast,” Hargrove surprises him. “Don’t be such a pussy, Harrington, I’m only kidding.”
Steve stills in his seat, tense. He looks away from Hargrove, wishing he had sat somewhere else.
“I’m not a fucking leper, you know. You can sit here.” He nods towards the seat across from him.
“Fine.” Steve slides in, but doesn’t fully relax into his seat.
They sit in silence for a few moments.
“So.” Hargrove shoots him toothy grin, and Steve can tell how forced it is but it’s still somehow both terrifying and magnetic. “You come here often?”
He takes a moment to answer, not wanting to seem to eager to make conversation. “First time in years. What about you?”
"Been here a few times. Would probably come more often if it wasn’t in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.”
“Yeah, it’s a little far,” Steve concedes, thinking of the long drive. “How did you get here? I didn’t see your car in the lot.”
At his hesitation, a sudden horrible thought occurs to Steve. “You didn’t walk, did you?”
Hargrove shrugs, looks at the table. “Sometimes a long walk is just what a guy needs.”
Steve stares at him. “It’s fucking freezing outside. How were you planning to get back?”
He shrugs again.
“You don’t even have a fucking coat, what—“
“Get off my back, Harrington, Jesus. You sound like my fucking mom.”
Before Steve can reply, the waitress from earlier appears with a giant plate balanced in one hand, a coffee pot and an empty mug strategically in the other. She sets the plate in front of Billy, and Steve’s eyes widen at all the food—bacon, ham, sausages, two eggs, hash browns, and a stack of white toast.
Billy smiles at her. “Thanks, Norma.”
Steve notices that her name tag reads Norma. She sets the empty mug down before Steve.
"Coffee, darling?”
“Yes, sure,” Steve says without really thinking about it. It’s too late for coffee. But she pours it, and it smells dark and rich and the heat of it reaches his face.
"Can I grab you anything to eat, darling?” She reaches to refill Billy’s cup.
“Could I have a cheeseburger and fries, please?”
“Any soda with that?”
"The coffee’s fine, thanks.”
When she’s gone, Steve turns back to Billy. He’s already started eating. His eggs sunny side up, and Steve watches as Billy dips his toast into the wet yolk before shoving it into his mouth. While he’s still chewing, he wolfs down a strip of bacon, and begins cutting into the slab of ham. Now that he’s really looking, Steve notices how bloodshot Billy’s eyes are, how the skin underneath is translucent. His face looks a little off somehow, raw. His left cheek looks a little swollen. He wonders if it’s from the treacherous walk to the diner or something else.
Steve tears his gaze away before Billy can call him out for staring. “Enjoying yourself?”
Billy nods, mouth gleaming with grease as he chews. “So good.” He swallows. “Fucking starving.”
Steve nods, as Billy devours half a sausage in one bite. “I can tell.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes, disturbed only by the distant do-wop and the noises of Billy eating. Yolk runs down his chin, and Billy licks it away before wiping his chin with the back of his hand. Steve sips his black coffee, but it’s still a little too hot. He keeps his hands around the mug for the warmth.
“You enjoying yourself?” Billy prods, blue eyes sharp and devious.
“Yeah,” Steve admit easily, not bothering to hide that he’s watching. “It’s just making me more excited for my food.”
Billy scoffs, picks up a piece of bacon with his greasy fingers and pulls off a bite with his teeth. “So what,” he says over the mouthful, “The King doesn’t get fed at supper time?”
“My parents aren’t home.”
“Where are they?”
“The Caribbean.”
Billy glances up, stops chewing. “What the fuck?”
Steve nods, looks into his lap. “They don’t usually stay for much of the winter.”
“So you get the house to yourself? That’s fucking sick, Harrington. Throwing some wild parties or what?”
Steve laughs. “I used to all the time. Not really my thing anymore.”
“Came to Hawkins too late, clearly. So, what’s up with that, Harrington?”
"What?” But he knows.
“Why isn’t partying ‘your thing’ anymore?”
Steve shifts in his seat. “I don’t know, man, just kinda grew out of it. That shit gets old after a while.”
Billy studies him, and Steve feels himself flush. He realizes he still has his parka on.
“’Cause of Wheeler?”
“No. I mean, maybe at little, I guess.”
Billy leans across the table, voice lowering secretively as if anyone would ne around to overhear. “So what happened? Between you and Wheeler?”
“None of your business, Hargrove. Besides, everyone already knows. It was the fucking gossip of the school for months,” he adds bitterly.
Billy shrugs, grinning, and this time it feels a little more sincere but no less mischievous. “Can’t always believe what you hear, Pretty Boy. Besides, I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
Again, Steve is spared a real answer when Norma is suddenly at his side with his burger and fries. She pours more coffee into both of their mugs, asks if they need anything else, and then she disappears again.
Steve digs in right away. First, he peels back the top half of his burger to reveal three slices of pickle. He picks them off, scoops up his burger and takes a generous bite. He reaches over for the ketchup and squirts it in a little puddle by his fries. Billy takes some ketchup and squirts it over his hash browns—the only thing he’s got left on his plate besides a few bites of ham.
They eat in silence. Steve can feel Billy watching him, and he looks everywhere but at Billy.
"So,” Billy breaks the silence. “Wheeler turned you into a pussy, that true?”
Steve rolls his eyes as he chews. “Do you expect me to answer that, Hargrove? Just let it go, Jesus.”
“Did you, like, fall in love?” Billy taunts.
“Just shut up, will you? Christ, I feel like I’m babysitting.”
“Is it true that you two had a three way with Byers?”
At this, Steve scowls up at Billy. Billy’s grinning knowingly, like he already knows the answer, but Steve sees a glimmer of curiosity.
“What do you think?”
But Billy just shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Dude, obviously not. Byers? Not really my type.”
Billy laughs, low and velvety. “Didn’t think so.” He’s cleaned his plate. Now, he’s leaning forward on his elbows across the table, considerably perked up after his meal, and taking great interest in Steve.
Steve swallows his fries. “You know, you never told me why you were here. Must be a good reason if you walked here in the cold at night without a coat.”
Billy deflates slightly. “Well, I was hungry, like you. And this is the only place in this shit town that’s open.”
“So you walked for like three hours just to get food here?”
“Yep.”
Steve eyes him, but decides not to push. He finishes the last of his burger, picks at his fries between sips of coffee.
“Are you gonna eat those pickles?”
Steve shakes his head. “Go head.”
Billy does.
When Steve is finishing up his fries, Norma comes to collect their empty plates, and ask them if they’d like some dessert. Steve is about to refuse, when Billy pipes in.
“What kind of dessert you got there tonight, Norma?”
“We’ve got all kinds of pie on special tonight, we got Cherry Pie, Apple Pie, Pumpkin Pie, and Pecan Pie. Fancy any of those, boys?”
"Norma, I would love a slice of Cherry Pie.”
“Cherry, and you?” She looks at Steve.
“Apple, please.”
“You must have been hungry,” Steve remarks once she’s gone.
Billy winks at him. “Ravenous.”
Steve flushes again, and wonders why he never took off his coat. He feels suddenly too hot and a little sweaty.
She returns with their pie, each with a dollop of vanilla ice cream.
The pie tastes like cinnamon, like childhood, like innocence. He remembers the sun shimmering though the window, maybe in this exact booth, sitting across from his parents, shouting I spy with my little eye something that begins with F. Steve chews slowly. Family. He has a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“My mom used to make cherry pie all the time,” Billy says, breaking Steve out of his reverie. Billy’s smiling, eyes distant. “She sucked at cooking, but she loved baking, and cherry pie was her favourite.”
Steve couldn’t help but smile a little, but it was wary. “Is it as good as your moms?”
“Not even close.”
“Where is your mom?” He asked, thinking of Billy’s stepsister, and regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth.
“Not sure. She left when I was nine. Haven’t really heard from her much since.” Billy spoke casually, as if he’d just spoken to his mom the other day.
“I’m sorry.” He tried to keep his tone light, easy, like Billy.
Billy shrugged, didn’t look up. “Whatever. She was kind of a bitch.”
Steve chewed on his pie, but didn’t really want it. He set down his fork. “Does Susan ever make cherry pie?”
Billy snorts. “Susan’s baking is shit.” He recounts the story of how Susan made chocolate chip cookies a few weeks back and accidentally put cardamom in them instead of cinnamon, and he and Max pretended they were perfectly delicious. He is full of amusement and disdain, and Steve listens and laughs mostly politely but a little bit genuinely, too. It’s a strange thing, to see Billy really smile and really laugh, without the smugness or the hostility. He smiles as he talks, licking cherry out of the corner of his mouth, and the apples of his cheeks brighten with color and his eyes glimmer like water, and Steve feels like he’s seeing a new Billy. Maybe the real Billy.
Billy licks his lips when he’s finished his pie, tongue stained red, and he begins picking through his pockets. He pulls out a few crumpled one-dollar bills and continues searching. “Hey, Harrington, got any spare change to loan me?” He doesn’t seem at all concerned that he won’t have enough to cover his bill.
Steve glares. “So what, ‘cause my parents are rich you expect me to just buy your food?”
“Come on, Harrington, your parents are in the fucking Caribbean, I’m sure you can loan me a few bucks. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”
When Norma comes to the table with their bills printed, Steve tells her he’ll cover both. It’s seventeen dollars and eight cents. He gives her a twenty and tells her to keep the change. She smiles and lays a thick hand on Steve’s shoulder.
“Thank you boys so much! You have a good night, now.”
When she goes, Steve turns to find Billy grinning at him. He looks warm and satisfied and sleepy, and his smile reminds Steve of the ones he uses to charm girls. “Thanks for dinner, Pretty Boy.”
Steve checks his watch, hiding his face from Billy, and it’s almost three. “Don’t get used to it.” He zips up his parka, produces his keys from his pocket, and gets to his feet. Billy slides out of the booth uncertainly and unsteadily. His body seems stiff, and he’s avoiding Steve’s eye. He’s wearing a black hoodie and a denim jacket, and that’s it. Steve doesn’t understand how Billy walked.
“Are you coming?” He asks, turning towards the door
“I don’t need—“
“You’re not walking, moron. Come on.” Steve keeps walking, not giving Billy the chance to protest.
They both climb into Steve’s BMW. The car is freezing when they get in, and he blasts the heat for a few minutes before backing out.
Billy pulls out a smoke and lights up without asking.
“Fuck, it’s cold,” he mutters miserably. “I fucking hate this shit town. You know back home the coldest it gets is like, fifty.”
“That must be nice. I’ve never been to California.”
“You should sometime. Get your rich parents to take you on a trip. Get out of this hell hole.”
“Guess you won’t be staying after graduation, then.”
“As soon as that prison lets me go, I’m getting some shit job to save up some money, and then I’m getting the fuck out of here.”
“Will you go back to California?”
“I love it back home, but who knows where I’ll end up.”
“Are you applying to any colleges?”
Billy snorts, but it sounds forced. “That shit’s a waste of time.”
“Yeah.”
The window is finally clear. Steve shifts into reverse, backs out of the gravel lot, and drives into the dark highway.
“You applying to any?”
Steve chews his lip. He turns the heat down a few notches. “A few. I’d like to go. Otherwise I’m probably just going to end up working for my dad.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s the President of Johnson Insurance.”
Billy makes a little noise of acknowledgment. Steve’s not sure what he’s thinking.
“He really wants me to follow in his footsteps, or whatever. I’d start out as a broker first, like he did, and work my way up. I don’t know, it pays well and it would be so easy for me to just do it, but it just…”
Billy laughs. “Sounds like a fucking nightmare.”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He’d given the idea plenty of thought, even considered it a marvelous idea at one point. When he’d been with Nancy. He saw himself raking in big paychecks, marrying Nancy, settling down to have a few kids. He’d been excited about it, thought he had his whole life figured out and was happy with that. That Steve seems far away now. He doesn’t say any of this to Billy. “My dad will be pretty pissed when I tell him I don’t want to do it. I think he’s still under the impression that once I’m done school I’m going straight to work for him.”
“Afraid to tell him?”
Steve considers. “I guess. I’m more afraid that he’ll persuade me into doing it. He can be persuasive like that.”
“Sounds like he’s a bit of an asshole, huh?”
Steve chuckles humourlessly. “When he’s actually around, yeah he is.” Steve thinks of Billy walking through the forest without a jacket in the freezing cold. “I mean he’s not the worst—he’s okay, I guess. He’s just… all about himself, you know.”
He chances a glance at Billy. He’s relaxed right into the seat, eyes heavy as he smokes his cigarette. It’s the most relaxed Steve has ever seen him.
“What about yours?”
Billy doesn’t look at him. “My old man? He’s probably the biggest asshole you’ll ever meet.”
“You guys don’t get along?”
“Nope. And he’s always around. I’d kill to have a house as empty as yours.”
“Yeah, it’s cool. Kinda sucks too, though,” he adds after a moment.
Billy scoffs. “How?”
“I mean, it has its perks, don’t get me wrong, but… I don’t know, man. Being alone constantly sucks. You get trapped in your head.”
“That why you came out to Bernie’s tonight?”
“Yeah. The house gets suffocating, or something.” Sometimes he just needs to remind himself that he’s real, that people can see him. “It’s hard to sleep.”
A moment of silence passes, and the lights of the town come into sight. They pass the quiet suburbs, and Steve gets a chill.
“I get it. I needed to escape, too. Too bad the only place open in this hick place is fucking miles away.”
“Why did you walk?”
“My old man took my car keys. I was starving, and it was the only place to go. Besides, figured it’s better to keep walking than stand still.”
Steve processes the information, and something heavy pulls in his gut. “Jesus.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“You could have died of hypothermia or something, and the woods here—“ he falters. “The woods are dangerous.”
“Don’t get dramatic, Pretty Boy. I told you its no big deal, I can handle myself.” They sit in tense silence for a moment before Billy turns to him again, curiosity sparkling in his eyes. “What’s in the woods here? Like, bears and shit?”
“All kinds of shit. Especially at night, it’s not safe.”
Billy doesn’t say anything, and the two drive quietly for a few minutes before they find themselves in the thrush of the town. It’s quiet, dark.
“Do you always drive without music?”
“You can turn some on.”
Billy reaches for the radio, fiddles with the stations of jazz and country until he settles on Tears for Fears.
"Do they only play fag music late at night or something?” He mutters.
Steve frowns. “What’s wrong with Tears for Fears?”
Billy snorts. “Seriously, you like these guys? I thought they were for chicks.”
Steve is slightly affronted by the mocking in Billy's tone. “Oh and what do you listen to? Metallica and Iron Maiden?”
He sees Billy shrug out of the corner of his eye. “What’s your point, Pretty Boy? They’re great bands.”
“Just so predictable.”
"Right, and Tears for Fears is so unexpected for a prep like you. Let me guess, big fan of Huey Lewis, Hall & Oates, Duran Duran?”
“Well, those are great bands.”
“Yeah, if you’re a queer.”
Steve just shakes his head.
“So have you always been this much of a pussy, or is that Wheeler’s handiwork?”
“Will you just shut up about Nancy?”
Billy cackles. “Still a sore spot, huh? I guess it must hurt to be dumped for a weirdo like Byers.”
“You really are an asshole, you know that?”
“What can I say, it’s my best color.”
They drive the rest of the way without talking, the quiet bop of Everybody Wants to Rule the World shifts into Dancing in the Dark, one of Steve’s favorite songs. He tries not to sing along or tap his fingers as he makes the turns to Billy’s street, Gower Lane, which he knows almost by muscle memory now from picking up and dropping of Max so many times in the last few months.
“How the fuck do you know where I live, Harrington?”
“Max,” he says simply.
“Oh. Right. You know, it’s pretty weird how you hang out with all those kids.”
"Oh, fuck off.”
“You’re not even related to any of them. What’s up with that, Harrington?”
“We’ve just been through some stuff together, alright? And besides, someone’s gotta keep on an eye on those little shits.”
“What kinda stuff?”
Steve takes a breath. He can feel Billy looking at him. “It’s a really long story.”
“Huh. Well, I guess it’s nice for someone to keep an eye on Max when I can’t.”
Steve releases. “Max is a good kid.”
“Yeah, she’s alright.”
Steve turns onto Gower, and almost immediately Billy tells him to stop.
“But—this isn’t your house.”
“I’ll get out here.”
“What? Why don’t I just—“
“I said here’s fine, Harrington.” Billy’s eyes are hard, but he seems too tired to really fight about it.
“Alright.” Steve pulls into park and waits for Billy to get out. When he doesn’t, an awkward silence passes, and Steve hears himself begin to speak. “Listen. If you ever—get stuck or anything like that, you can call me. I’m always awake.” He digs in the little compartment under the radio and finds a pen and a crumpled napkin, scribbles out his phone number and, after a moment of consideration, his address too. He hands it to Billy.
Billy looks at the napkin with something like suspicion. He glances at Steve with the same hard eyes. “Why?”
Steve frowns, grows impatient. “Because I don’t want you to fucking freeze to death. Just take it, will you?”
“Fine, fuck.” Billy takes it and shoves it into the pocket of his jean jacket. His hand is on the handle, and Steve thinks he’s going to get out without saying anything else. But he hesitates, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Steve looks, but there’s nothing there.
“Alright,” Billy says. “Cool, Harrington.”
Steve wonders if Billy is trying to thank him. He isn’t sure what to say.
“See you later,” he says, instead of see you tomorrow. Somehow, the reminder of school seems out of place.
“Later.” Billy gets out of the car, closes the door without slamming it. Steve lingers to watch him hike up the street, arms tense and hands in his pockets. He passes a few houses before he disappears into his front lawn. Steve wants to watch him get safely into the house, but he doesn’t dare drive by. Instead, he pulls a U-turn, and heads back the way he came.
His house is tall and hollow when he gets home. Everything is exactly how he left it; a bowl in the sink with the remainder of his cereal this morning, half a pot of cold coffee, his socks still scattered on the living room floor with an empty glass at the end table. It feels like he never left, and for a startling moment he wonders if he did at all.
He turns up the thermostat and goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He’s startled by his own reflection, gaunt and gangly and suddenly older than he is. He reaches out to touch it, watching his fingers connect to the reflected ones. He wonders when he got so old, wonders if everything has just been a long, long dream.
Downstairs, he goes to the back patio door to check the lock. He finds himself gazing into the low light from the pool, and the woods lay just beyond. He checks the lock on the patio door three times. He returns to the front entrance, makes sure both the chain and the deadbolt and the knob are locked. He double checks. He descends into the basement, freezing and damp and cluttered with storage, just to check the cellar door. He comes back upstairs, re-checks the patio and the main door. He turns off the main lights, but leaves on the lights over the door, the light over the stove. He returns to the living room, clicks on the lamp by the sofa and turns off the overhead light. He fixes the blanket bunched up at the end of the sofa, spreads it out to the pillow at the other end, where the indent from his resting head is still there. He strips, gets under the covers and pulls them up to his shoulders.
He tries not to think about his pool, the woods, or Billy Hargrove.
When morning comes, it doesn’t feel like he’s slept at all but he must have, because he doesn’t remember it getting bright. He rises to get ready for school, body stiff and his shoulders sore. The first thing he does is start the coffee. He goes to the bathroom to piss, hops into the shower for a quick rinse. When he gets out, dripping all over the floor—and no one is home to scold him—the coffee is done, and he pours himself a cup. He brings it up to his bedroom, where he picks out a pair of jeans from the drawer and a sweater from the closet. He sprays and styles his hair, no more than five minutes spent on it. There was a time when he would spend almost half an hour perfecting his hair. Now, he can’t bring himself to care as much.
He skips breakfast that morning, still a little full from his late night supper. He remembers it with a start, and wonders if he’d dreamt the whole thing. He wonders what Billy will be like at school, if he’ll say hello or give a friendly nod, if he’ll act the same, or worse, if he’ll just ignore Steve completely. He hopes to God Billy gives some sign of the night before.
Steve brushes his teeth, and goes to the porch to slip into his winter boots. His schoolbag is in a lump on the floor, where he dropped it yesterday on his way in from school. He zips into his parka, slips his bag over his shoulders, and digs his hands into his coat pockets to find his keys. They’re in his left pocket, along with a little piece of paper that pokes his finger when they close around it. He pulls it out. It’s two pieces of receipt paper—one for a cheeseburger and fries, coffee and apple pie; the other, a deluxe breakfast, coffee and cherry pie. He holds the receipts in his fingers, reading the contents over and over. He folds them up and shoves them back into his pocket, and heads out into the cold to get to school.