Edie’s screen door flaps behind us, a torn corner of screen bending to the breeze. We’ve beaten the lunch crowd, but not by much. A pimply busboy clears breakfast detritus. A pair of gray-hairs linger over coffee. Two short-skirted waitresses gossip thru the kitchen window with the cook. A Roy Orbison tune thumps out of the jukebox:

Only the lonely
Know the way I feel tonight
Only the lonely
Know this feeling ain’t right …

We start for a booth, but the damp stink of cigarette butts in a coffee mug there dissuades us; we take another one. The menu’s cracked vinyl cover scratches my hands. I order a turkey melt; she orders a tuna salad. She’s still wearing her clinic name tag; Cindy Ash.

“Things have changed so much since the Outbreak,” she says. “The clinic used to be our library.”

“How has your family done?” She raises brown eyes to meet mine; they’re filling with tears. “Families sure stick together,” I add hastily. “Is this diner family-owned? Those waitresses look like sisters.”