Mae lifted the bat a polite half-inch. The paper turkeys seemed to lean in.
Peter raised his hands, palms out, the gesture of a man recalculating odds. "Fine. Fine. I'll take a booth. At dawn I'm walking to the highway if I have to. Claire, your mother will want a phone call the moment the lines are up. She deserves that much."
"I'll call her myself," Claire said. "When I'm ready. Not when you are. Not when she is. When I am."
They arranged an uneasy night with the choreography of people who would rather be strangers. Peter took the far booth near the dark jukebox, coat draped over the suitcase like a flag of temporary surrender. Claire returned to the heater booth, nerves humming like the pendant lamp. Jack lingered by the counter until Mae ordered him to bed with a look that said she would handle any raccoon, fool, or traveling fiancé foolish enough to restart the argument before coffee.