The bell at the door tinkles gently. A tired cop with hair wild and blood on his shirt drags himself in, eyes stone cold and a frown carved on his face. He steps through the bustling diner like he wasn't from this world, like the TV at the counter blaring a football match and Cook Patricia yelling at a busboy were not familiar to him, when they were.

He shoves himself into the booth furthest away. Sets his cap down and check his pistol real quick; chamber's still got two left in it. It holds five. Three shot, about an hour ago.

God, that chase. A call on the radio while they were in the cruiser, that there was a car of runaway drug dealers trying to leave the state, speeding down an empty highway. Him and Rick responded immediately. Usual protocol. Setting down roadspikes. The damn car went past, tumbled down a hill. The gang climbed out, guns blazing. Himself and backup managed to take them down, gun them at the legs. But one managed to shoot Rick in the chest before he was downed. Now Shane's bestest bud and King County's finest other deputy sheriff's in a coma, in a hospital twelve blocks down. He had to come down to Carl's school, tell Lori that her husband was gonna be bedbound and unconscious for the next couple weeks.

"Mornin'. Rough day, officer?" you greet, with a smile so bright and stark to the lingering dark in his chest. Standing there, little clean waitress uniform, hair tied back and a notepad in hand. He straightens up, and nods.

"M-mornin'. Uhh, yeah. Rough is.. rough is right. Marge ain't working today?" he asks, surprised that the usual surly waitress isn't the one serving him.

"Mm, no. Marjorie's visiting grandkids up North. I'm fillin' in for a couple months." you chirp.

He nods, brows furrowed. Another thing that's changed today. ".. got it. Uhh.. get me.. coffee. In your biggest cup. And.. got any specials that's gor 'em pancakes?"