Another lunch shift at the Back Porch and it seemed as if those surreal, crazy days with Nick had never happened. The regulars sat on stools at the counter or in booths, which might as well have been stamped with their names. Gopher manned the grill. Marty moved like lightning from the tables to the wait station, singing “Pumped Up Kicks” in a tuneless monotone. The air smelled of fry grease and apple pie, and the hum of conversation was as familiar and dull as the droning of bees. But when Ames stepped out of the break room, the place went suddenly quiet. Everyone looked up. Her skin shriveled at all the eyes upon her, and she felt like she ought to say something, but she had no idea what. Then a farmer in the corner began clapping, and several other customers joined in. What the hell? Missy Holmes and Jenny Brown, the Realtor, bolted up from their booth and came to hug her. “You poor, brave thing,” Missy gushed. “What you’ve been through!” “If you need anything, anything at all, you let us know,”
