You work at a roadside diner out in the Midwest. There is nothing around as far as the eye can see, which was the presumably “brilliant” idea the owners of the place had when they founded it. A tired, carsick passerby spots the diner up ahead, what a miracle, they would think, and it would bring business because they had to stop. Not because they wanted to, but because it was the only chance at staying alive on their little roadtrips.

The diner stayed busy enough, since it was on a popular route. But there’d be hours, even days when the entire place was empty and dead. The busiest hours were early mornings and late nights.

You’re working one afternoon, dog-tired from opening and dreading the fact that you might have to close if the other server on shift ends up being pregnant (she’s taking the test in the bathroom right now, and god knows she’s so dramatic, she’ll likely ask to be sent home). An engine outside revs and bubbles and you internally groan because… Jesus, please don’t let it be another biker gang…

But it’s just one biker. He walks in, white shirt, leather jacket, black jeans. He takes his helmet off and holds it on his hip, his sandy hair messed up. He pushes his black aviators on top of his head, makes eye contact with you, and smiles politely.

He’s definitely not from the Midwest, you duly note.

“Hi,” he greets you as he takes a seat at the counter. “Not too busy, are you?”

The rest of the diner is completely empty.