My glasses fogged up when Diane set the bowl of hot chili in front of me.

The beans were mixed in well with the piping hot tomato sauce, carrots, and meat, all poured into a white porcelain bowl. Beside the bowl sat a fist-sized chunk of Diane’s homemade cornbread and a frothy beer-- more water than anything else. It was my late afternoon ritual: lock up the site and come here for a nice bowl of chili before making the drive home in the scorching summer sun.

Diane’s Place, with its lonely sign leaning lazily outside in the parking lot, was busy like always. Truck drivers sat at most of the tables, grease pooling on their laps after dripping from their hot burgers and French fries. A little girl was crying as her mother tried to feed her carrots, screaming “no, momma! I don’ want none!” A family sat in the corner booth—father, mother, grandma, Child A, and Child B. Child B seemed to be trying his hardest to get as much ice cream on his face as possible.

“Are ya enjoyin’ that?”

I wasn’t fully asleep before, but hearing Diane’s strained voice shout in my ear woke me up. The late nights and early mornings had been getting to me, I guess.

“What?” I feigned as though I hadn’t heard her the first time. It wasn’t exactly easier that way, but it let me take a moment to prepare my thoughts.

“I says: are ya enjoyin’ that?”

“Delicious,” I murmur, taking a bite to show how much I liked it. Diane scoffed, her brows furrowing down her craggily face. Maybe I’m too short with her, I think, really doubting myself for a moment or two.  That said, Diane is a strong woman. Burly. Gruff. Even unpleasant. I didn’t feel the need to impress her, just to show my appreciation as best I could. And the chili was good, admittedly. It was much better than the stuff I would get at home.

I let myself dive down into the chili bowl again, taking out a big hunk of beef. That was good, too. It had become harder to get beef as of late. Some farmers down South had taken it upon themselves to strike. Not sure what good it will do them, but you know how it is. Maybe everything will work out better for them if they feel as though they get their feelings heard.

An old tune came on the radio, that one about the cowboy in Agua Fria. Suddenly, I felt a bit sick to my stomach. It’s funny how the silliest memories can come back at the most inconvenient times.

I downed my beer, the weak flavor of hops hitting my tongue for only a second before drowning my thoughts. Still, my stomach was hurting.

“Check, please!”

I could feel Diane coming from around the corner and darting towards my table.

“You sure, hon? I’ll box that up for you if ya wants.”

“No, thanks Diane. Just the bill.”

“A’ight, here ya go,” and then, when she saw me pull out the wad of bills from my right pocket, eyes widening, “Can I get you some change?”

“No, thanks. Have a good one.”

And before she could raise a fuss, I got out of my chair and slid by her towards the door. I could feel the room draw silent as people took notice of me, or took notice of the symbol on the right side of my shirt. Even the kid who didn’t want any carrots seemed to stare right into my soul.

But all that was gone once I walked into the sunlight and the cicadas singing. The pavement burned through my shoes as I walked towards my grey Pontiac from a few decades ago. This town-- this country, or maybe this continent—hadn’t had a truly cold day in at least six months, and seemed to never get snowfall, and it is almost like you could feel the layers upon layers of sunshine being built up from the ground beneath you. It was uncomfortably hot, the kind of hot that had you gasping for water after only taking a few steps. It was the kind of hot that burns through your skin and torches your bones, turning them into torches that stay alight even after your skin has sought the safety of an air conditioning unit.

Suffice to say, I hardly thought about Diane or her Place until I got to my oven of a vehicle and turned back around.

It really wasn’t much to look at from the outside. A flat, metallic building with a lopsided red sign, paint peeling off and blowing away. It was the same unremarkable country diner you would find in any small town, serving the same pre-packaged French fries and greasy hamburgers with an inch or more of red in the center. The same assortment of travelers walks in and out of it every day, and the same smell emanates from the same chimney on the same roof. The same jukebox sits unused beside the same three video lottery machines with the same old ladies coming in every morning at 9:45 AM for the same glass of cranberry juice and a chance to win big but only ever seeming to lose their savings by lunchtime. The only thing that made it different from any other Place was that this one was Diane’s Place; she had staked her name on it and that was that. But that made it good, didn’t it? Diane treated me well, which is more than I could say about most people here.

I was searching my glovebox for the small packet of cigarettes I kept in case of emergencies when I heard a knock on my window.

He was a young guy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with a pair of dark black eyes and spiky blonde hair. His chin was thin, pushed inwards, with a small mouth and nose. If it weren’t for the small bit of stubble along his jawline, I might have thought he was a teen girl going through her rebellious phase.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

I waited. He seemed a bit awkward, shy, almost. He obviously had something he wanted to ask me, and I had a pretty good idea what it was about.

“Can I help you?” I asked, gently prodding. I didn’t mind talking about it, as little as I was allowed to.

“Um, ah, um,” he seemed unable to get the words out as if I was some sort of celebrity and he was a reporter on his first day at the new job. I started the car, thinking that it would either get him talking quicker or get him away from my window so I could go.

“Hey wait,” he cried, suddenly very keen on talking, “I was just wondering if it was true?”

I looked at him. He didn’t look nervous now. He looked scared.

“If what was true?” My eyes narrowing.

“Do you, you know, do you really use kids?”

I sighed. This wasn’t the first time someone had asked me. I used to be more descriptive, to try to appeal to their sense of the greater good. Or to explain the position we were in. Or to at least let them know that it wasn’t my choice, it was just the way things had to be.

“Yes, we do. Now please step back from my car.”

The kid, thankfully, did what he was told. Sometimes this would have resulted in some sort of confrontation. I’m happy I didn’t have to knock the kid’s teeth in.

Pulling out of the parking lot at Diane’s Place, I decided to take the long way home.

 If I took the highway, it would be less than ten minutes. But taking the old road it was a long drive down thin, twisting, streets lined tightly with birch and cedars. It took almost twice the time, but it was a far better drive. Besides, Lily would wait for me.

I turned the radio on and almost immediately shut it off again.

 What is the game plan here, Marty? Well, I think we all know that whatever Ertragen is doing involves children and The Ellis Incident. My theory is . . .

Suddenly, I felt no desire to take the long route and instead decided to go directly home.