He walked into a dusty diner for coffee and found the friend who once saved his future wiping tables for tips. The smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee wasn’t what Matthew Branson had planned for his Tuesday morning. He was supposed to be halfway to a meeting in downtown Phoenix reviewing property reports in the back of his town car. Instead, a flat tire on the highway left him stranded outside Yuma, Arizona with nothing but a roadside diner called Patty’s Place in sight.
He pushed open the glass door, the bell above it giving a tired jingle. The place looked frozen in time. Vinyl booths patched with duct tape, faded photos of local softball teams on the walls, a jukebox that probably hadn’t played a song in years. Matthew adjusted his jacket feeling out of place in his tailored suit among truckers and farmers wearing ball caps. He slid into a corner booth, ordered black coffee, and was pulling out his phone when a voice said, “Morning.
