“I have eyes.”
“Eyes are expensive.”
“I’m paying.”
Gus looked at her.
“With what?”
“Tips.”
“You need your tips.”
“So does he.”
Gus muttered something in Greek.
Danny never knew whether that was affection or a curse.
Probably both.
“Two eggs?”
She nodded.
“Toast.”
“Yes.”
“Hash browns?”
“Small.”
Gus added them.
“You're too soft-hearted.”
Danny picked up the plate.
“No.”
“I just know what it feels like when nobody has enough.”
Gus looked at her for half a second longer.
His expression softened.
“Your father would be proud of you.”
Danny’s hands paused.
“Yeah.”
Then she pushed through the door.
The old man was warming both hands around the coffee mug.
Danny put toast in front of him.
Then the plate.
He looked at the eggs.
“I didn't order this.”
Danny glanced toward the kitchen.
“Looks like they made an extra plate.”
He looked at Gus.
Gus immediately turned his back and became deeply interested in bacon.
The old man said:
“I can't pay for this.”
Danny slid silverware toward him.
“Good thing nobody asked you to.”
He looked at her.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because you look hungry.”
He swallowed.
“People don't usually notice things like that.”
Danny shrugged.
“Maybe they should.”
She went back to work.
The man ate slowly.
Not the way hungry people eat in movies.
No frantic shoveling.
He cut the eggs carefully.
Tore toast in half.
Saved half the sausage until last.
Danny had seen that kind of eating before.
People who did not know when food was coming again sometimes stretched a meal even after it was already theirs.
Twenty minutes later, Gus came from the kitchen carrying a fresh pot of coffee.
He looked at the old man’s empty plate.
“Good?”
The man nodded.
“Very.”
Gus looked at Danny.
“That wasn't an extra plate.”
Danny glared.
“Gus.”
The old man looked between them.
“You paid for it.”
Danny wiped the counter.
“He was hungry.”
Gus pointed the coffee pot at her.
“Too soft.”
Danny leaned against the register.
“My father used to say something.”
Gus sighed.
“Here we go.”
Danny ignored him.
“He said, ‘When somebody’s down, don't ask what they can give you.’”
She wiped a spot from the counter.
“‘Ask what you can do to help them stand again.’”
Gus nodded.
“Frank Mercer was a good man.”
“Yeah.”
“He was.”
The old man watched her.
“What was his name?”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“Frank.”
“What did he do?”
Danny smiled.
“City bus mechanic.”
“Thirty-one years.”
“Could fix anything that had wheels and complain about every person who designed it.”
The old man smiled.
Danny added:
“He died three years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
She said it without drama.
Grief had become too old for performance.
The lunch rush began shortly afterward.
Danny moved from table to table.
Coffee.
Refills.
Checks.
A crying toddler.
A construction crew arguing about football.
An elderly regular named Bea who needed her eggs soft but described every attempt as “nearly criminal.”
The old man stayed until almost noon.
When he finally stood, Danny saw him counting coins again.
“You leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Bus?”
He nodded.
“Number eight.”