I knew that better than most.
Anna died three years earlier when a drunk contractor in a lifted pickup ran a red light and slammed into her driver’s side door. She had just finished a twelve-hour nursing shift at St. Luke’s Hospital. She was still wearing her scrubs when they pulled her from the wreck.
The police officer who came to my porch took off his hat before he said her name.
That was how I knew my life was already over.
Since then, Friday nights belonged to the dead.
Betty, the owner of Betty’s Diner, never asked anymore.
She just placed my steak in front of me, Anna’s across from me, set down two glasses of water, and touched my shoulder once before walking away.
But this Friday was different.
Rain beat against the windows. The neon sign outside flickered red and blue over the wet street. A small American flag hung above the counter beside a faded photo of Betty’s husband in uniform.
The woman at the door looked like she had been walking for miles.
