on the floor crying over that letter. The next, I was running toward the diner with the key clenched in my fist. It was quiet when I walked in, that slow space between breakfast and lunch. Joe stood behind the counter, refilling sugar dispensers. He looked up. I held up the key.
“Is it true?”
Joe set the sugar jar down slowly.
“Yeah.”
He reached under the counter and pulled out a folder. Inside were legal papers with my name printed across them. Ownership percentages. Bank documents. Signatures. Everything official.
