Then again.
And then his body slowly folded, sliding down the brick wall beside the door in a controlled collapse that tried — and failed — to avoid attention.
No one rushed forward.
A couple in booth three exchanged glances and returned to their pancakes. A delivery driver muttered something under his breath and stepped around the man. The drive-thru headset crackled with impatience.
Savannah’s heart tightened.
She glanced toward the kitchen window where Dale Morrison, the diner’s owner and manager, stood reviewing receipts with the expression of someone perpetually calculating margins.
“Dale,” she called gently, “there’s a guy out front who doesn’t look good.”
Dale barely lifted his head. “People pass through. Not our problem.”
Savannah hesitated for half a second — long enough to know she wouldn’t forgive herself if she stayed.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
