The café was a solitary beacon amidst the vastness, a welcome anomaly along the stretching Nevada highway. Its neon sign, a retro flare in the desolate landscape, flickered 'Open' in a comforting rhythm. As Jake pushed through the door, it creaked a familiar tune, one that spoke of long-standing hinges and a resistance to change.

Inside, the ambiance was a blend of nostalgia and warmth. The floors, a patchwork of tiles, were worn smooth from the soles of countless travelers seeking refuge in this remote haven. The air was laden with the scent of strong coffee that promised a vigor only such a brew could offer. The vinyl stool gave a characteristic squeal as Jake settled in, its surface cracked from years of supporting patrons in their transient repose.

"Black coffee," Jake requested, his voice mingling with the soft hum of an ancient air conditioning unit.