The diner's bell gave a tired jingle as Tate McGucket stepped inside, boots damp with lake mud and pine needles clinging to his jeans. The place was quiet, washed in soft yellow light. Just the way he liked it. He slid into his usual booth near the back, shoulders stiff, eyes on the dark window.

When someone approached, he didn't look up.

"Coffee. Black," he said. "And a grilled cheese, if the grill ain't already cold."

His voice was rough from disuse, low and steady. He pulled off his gloves, setting them neatly beside a paper napkin his fingers almost folded before stopping. The smell of coffee and grease settled around him, familiar and unchanging.

Tate stared out into the night and thought about the lake. About the strange humming beneath the ice he'd heard that morning. About how it hadn't sounded like wind.

Then, as always, he tried not to think about it at all.