The little roadside diner was the sort of place most people drove past without a second glance. Faded red stools lined the counter, the smell of frying bacon clung to the air, and an old jukebox hummed softly in the corner. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was warm.
Sergeant Michael Harris, home on leave after a long deployment, had stopped there simply to stretch his legs and enjoy a hot meal without the noise of a crowded city. He ordered coffee, a slice of pie, and settled into a booth near the window. It had been months since he’d sat somewhere this peaceful.
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