Five-thirty in the morning was a surprisingly busy time in this diner, tucked under the elevated trains not far from Rafi’s apartment. He came here several times a week and had gradually become a part of the pre-dawn brotherhood. Early on he’d polished his English, joining the motley assembly for discussions of Chicago sports and politics. Later he’d made some good friends. Jake, who traded warrants on the Tokyo exchange, and was wearily on his way home when Rafi was on his way out. Paul, a first-shift nurse at the county hospital. Odette, in her seventies, who mothered him. Hell, he welcomed it; it had been a long time since anyone had much cared about his welfare. Rafi regarded his breakfast: two eggs sunny-side up, a biscuit, and sausage. Jimmy Dean sausage, as American as meat got. In this diner, Rafi didn’t feel like a foreigner. Even on days when he didn’t see anyone he knew, he felt at home. Not today though. He set his fork down, took a long swallow of orange juice. No appetite.
