I stared at the clean white page of his notebook, my mind too dull to wonder how he knew my name from the small plastic badge pinned to my collar.
“It is five-five-five, zero-one-four-eight,” I said.
He wrote the numbers down in a precise, blocky script, then closed the leather book with a soft click.
“Go home and rest,” he said, rising from the metal chair. “I will call you tomorrow.”
The morning sun had not yet broken through the gray clouds when I walked into the vestibule of the Starlight Diner the next day.
The small glass entryway smelled of fried onions and wet asphalt from the street outside.
My legs felt heavy, each step a reminder of the twelve hours I had worked the day before.
The pay phone on the wall near the coat rack began to ring, its sharp bell echoing in the narrow space.
I reached out and picked up the black receiver, pressing it to my ear.
