\u201cI don\u2019t understand,\u201d the woman says, loud enough for Darius to hear. \u201cI had it when we left the house. I\u2019m sure I had it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her husband checks his pockets again\u2014more desperately this time. He pulls out an antique gold pocket watch, examines it as if money might magically appear behind its face. Nothing.<\/p>\n
Sandy, the evening waitress, approaches their table with obvious reluctance. She\u2019s worked here long enough to recognize the signs: nice people, bad situation\u2014the kind of problem that breaks your heart but doesn\u2019t pay the bills.<\/p>\n
\u201cFolks, I hate to bother you, but\u2026\u201d She holds the check between two fingers like it might bite her.<\/p>\n
The woman\u2019s face crumples. \u201cWe\u2019re so embarrassed. We seem to have misplaced our wallet. I don\u2019t know how. We\u2019ve never\u2014this has never happened before.\u201d<\/p>\n
Through fragments of their conversation, Darius pieces together their story. Their Mercedes broke down on the interstate\u2014U.S. Route 47\u2014two miles from the nearest exit. They walked through the storm to find help, hoping to call their son from the diner\u2019s pay phone. But the pay phone is broken, held together with electrical tape and good intentions.<\/p>\n
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