Then the man looked at me with unmistakable pain.
“Help,” he whispered.
I grabbed clean towels, pressed them against the wound, and told Martha to call emergency services.
“Stay awake,” I told him. “What is your name?”
“Grant.”
“Hold on, Grant. Help is coming.”
The paramedics arrived quickly and took him away.
I assumed I would never see him again, but three days later, he returned with a bandage beneath his shirt. He sat in the booth facing the entrance.
“Thank you for saving my life, Lena.”
I brought him coffee.
“What happened?”
“Wrong place at the wrong time.”
His expression warned me not to ask more, so I did not.
Grant became a regular customer. He always chose the same booth and watched the door. We developed a quiet agreement: I did not question his past, and he did not question mine.
Over time, we began talking. First about weather and books, then about the truths we had both tried to escape.
