``Had a child myself once,'' the waitress said.
``Born and died Christmas Day 1959. Paradise California.'' She smiled.
``I always say he's in Paradise. We was just passing through.'' She dragged on her cigarette and flicked the ash off.
``Never had another. Had a disease that scarred up my tubes.'' She put out the cigarette.
``More coffee hon?'' She looked up at the clock.
``Wish that bus would get here. You never know what those people will want. Once they was a soccer team - I cooked up twenty seven hamburgers and god knows how many fries - only had room on the grill for four burgers but I put them on six at a time,'' she shrugged, ''I hope I didn't kill no one. We didn't worry about burgers being rare in them days. That's the way most people liked them. Then there was the Mormons didn't want nothing but water and to use the rest rooms. You never know. You traveling far hon? That baby sure looks little to be on the road. You want a bottle for him? I got milk here. I wouldn't charge you nothing. Honey that baby don't look well. No? OK.''
She pulled herself up from the table and made fresh coffee. She turned on the scanner in the grill area.
``Honey your bus broke down. They're sending out a replacement from Elko. Wont be here for a while. You want to go lie down? You must be tired. You nursing the little one? There's a room you can lay down in back there. There's a recliner you could rest on. You got diapers for that baby? We got paper towels you could use...Honey let me hold that child. There. That's better. Honey your baby's gone I think your baby's gone. Don't worry none there's people coming...OK? OK?''
The waitress twitched awake and sighed and lit another Salem. She was sitting at an empty booth with her feet propped on the opposite seat. She looked out the window at the pre dawn sky.
``Another day,'' she said.