It was a Tuesday when the call came in.
Bea had been there since ten.
She hadn't called ahead. No reason to that was the thing with Bea, the one exceptional thing about her that Alora had never actually hit upon words for other than to say it was that Bea just knew. It was an angel of sorts, the kind that came in; some blue-collar figure always arriving at just the right moment with precisely what you needed, never making a hubbub about knowing or showing up.
She had brought food. Tins, stuffed inside a canvas satchel bearing the diner's logo the old one, the faded one, the one that was there before Alora and would most likely be there long after. Soup. The good kind. The sort Millie used to whip up on a cold day, after the breakfast rush and before the kitchen had its moment to exhale.
