She loved Susan, the cashier. She really did.

“Oh, hi!” came the greeting behind the counter. “How’s things at work? What’s going on with you—”

Lydia smiled. Waved. Pointed at her phone in an exaggerated way. “Call.”

Susan nodded and made all kinds of it’s-okay with her hands. “You just talk, I’ll wait.”

Susan was pushing sixty, and still full of beans, a wind-up toy with plenty of strength left in her pull string. Sporting an elaborately coiffed platinum-blond hairdo and a full face of makeup, she was like a starlet waiting for a movie director who had never shown up—but she hadn’t just been sitting around. Married to the fire chief, they had raised five sons in Walters, and like so many, she and her husband were lifers here in the valley, never gonna retire, never gonna move, as they said. Plus she had a committed side-hustle. In addition to running the grocery store, she was both the oral historian and chief newscaster of the area. Which was a wonderful service, covering both the past and the present. Of everybody.

No, really. It was great.

As a second ring came across the connection, Lydia walked back to the shallow meat counter and then glanced around at the seven aisles of short shelves. The selection for everything was small, high calorie’d, and uninspired, especially as it was all she’d been choosing from for the last two years. As a fourth ring burbled in her ear, she gave up pretending she was any kind of cook and rerouted to the entry into the diner part of things. She was out of gas tonight, and the idea of cooking anything, even a can of Campbell’s soup, was overwhelming.

And that was before she stepped through the swinging glass door and the smell of chicken pot pie hit her.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she muttered. “That’s what I’m talking about—”

“Hello?” came a male voice into her ear.

Lydia stopped. God, the sound of that man was like jumper cables hooked to her butt. “Ah, hi, Daniel Joseph? This is Lydia Susi from the Wolf—”

“Oh, yeah, hi. How are you doing?”

In the pause that followed, Lydia frowned as the music coming across the connection registered. It was an old Eagles song. And the weird thing was that “Take It to the Limit” was also … overhead for her as well.

“Lydia? Ms. Susi?”

“Are you …” She glanced to the booths that were against the wall. Then turned to the counter where the stools were. “Oh. Hi.”

Down at the far end of the lineup of truckers and townspeople, Daniel Joseph was parked on a stool and taking up three spaces. And as his eyes swung over and crossed the distance of a dozen half-eaten plates of beef stew and chicken parm, she lifted her hand. He did the same.

“I guess we should hang up,” she said into her phone.

“Sure.”

Ending the call, she walked forward, nodding at the familiar faces, the husbands and wives. The widowers. In the back of her mind, she noted there wasn’t a person under fifty, evidence that the town was hanging on by a generational thread that was fraying year to year. The sad reality was that the world was getting more digital every day, and the economics were tough this far from any population center. Young people, who were starting out or raising families, needed good paying jobs in urban centers.

“Hi.” She slipped her phone into her bag. “I thought you were going back to Glens Falls.”

“So did I. My bike broke down so I’m here overnight. You want to sit?”

As he went to move his leather jacket to the stool on the other side of him, she shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m just picking up to go. Where’s your bike?”

“Some guy named Paul is fixing it as we speak. Or he will when the part gets here in the morning.”

“Oh, you went to Paul Gagnon’s.”

He lifted what looked like a Coke and took a sip. The straw that had come with the glass had been taken out and put on the counter next to his knife/ fork/spoon roll.

“That’s the one. So you wanted to speak to me?”

Lydia cleared her throat. “You’ve got the job if you want it.”

“Really?” The slow, small smile was positively devastating. “That’s great. Thanks.”

As Lydia had to glance away, she pretended like she was acknowledging the trucker sitting in the booth behind him—even though the guy was facing away from her and she didn’t know him from a hole in the wall.

But it was either faking a salutation or feeling like something on a hot plate, fresh out of the diner’s kitchen.

“When do you want me to start?”

She shook herself back to attention. “Do you go by Dan or Daniel? And as soon as possible.”

“Good. I’ll start tomorrow. And I’m Daniel, not Dan.”

“Tomorrow? Really? But don’t you need to go get your things from where you—”

“I’m here for the night anyway and tomorrow is Friday. I’ll work the day and head back to Glens Falls when I’m done. What time do you want me?”

“Well, Trick used to come in at eight-thirty and leave at four-thirty.”

“Those are my hours, then.”

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow. And we’ll process your paperwork first thing so we can get you on payroll.”

Daniel tilted his head in that way he did. “What is that?”

“Um … it’s how you get paid? Have you always been under the table?”

“No, your necklace.”

Lydia looked down at the worn gold charm that hung at the V of her fleece—and realized she was still in her running tights. Her running shoes. Her sports bra.

As she swallowed a curse, she thought, hey, at least it wasn’t a news flash to him. She’d had the stuff on during his interview.

“Oh, it’s nothing special.” She shrugged. “Just a St. Christopher medal.”

“You’re Catholic? Sorry, if that’s personal.”

“It’s not, and it was my grandfather’s. He was Catholic. I don’t know what I am. Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, sure.”

As she turned away, he said, “What about your dinner?”

“Huh?” She looked across the counter at the server coming out of the kitchen. “Oh, right. Hey, Bessie—”

“I’ve got it coming up, Lydia. Your usual.”

Bessie was also sixty and had a perm that had been taken right out of a style book in 1985, but unlike fading beauty queen Susan, she had the vibe of a gym teacher. Or maybe someone who taught karate to army sergeants. After she delivered a hamburger and a plate of fries to Daniel, she wiped her hands on her apron and nodded like she’d taken a blood oath to bring out Lydia’s order.

No matter what the obstacles or what it cost her.

“I didn’t know I had a usual,” Lydia murmured. But like she was going to argue?

She liked her arms and legs just where they were, thank you very much—she’d never been sure whether Bessie’s commitment to her job crossed counter lines. Like, if you messed up as one of her customers, did she mop the floor with you?

“You want to sit while you wait?” Daniel asked.

“No, I’m good.” She looked up at the billboard of menu items that was bolted to the wall over the soft drink machines, the ice cream coolers, the pie display. “But thanks.”