Reluctantly, he agreed. And so, each morning, part of her meager income went toward keeping that boy fed.
The Empty Booth
And then, one Thursday, the boy didn’t come.
Ezoic
Jenny poured his glass of water anyway. She set a plate of pancakes on the table. But the booth stayed empty.
The next morning, the same. Then a week. Then two. Each day, she felt the absence like a weight. She hadn’t even asked his name, yet the diner seemed colder without him.
Online, someone posted a photo of the empty booth, mocking her kindness. “Rosie’s Diner feeds ghosts now.” The comments stung, accusing her of foolishness.
That night, Jenny opened a box of her father’s old belongings. He had been an Army medic. She reread a journal entry she had nearly memorized: Shared half a ration with a boy today. Risky, maybe. But hunger is hunger. No one becomes poor by sharing a loaf.
Her father’s words gave her strength. Kindness, she reminded herself, is never wasted — even if no one sees it.
Four Black SUVs
On the twenty-third day of his absence, something extraordinary happened.
At 9:17 a.m., four black SUVs with government plates rolled into the parking lot. The diner grew still. Doors opened in perfect unison, and uniformed men stepped out, their movements crisp and deliberate.
From the lead vehicle emerged a tall man in decorated Army dress uniform. Removing his cap, he scanned the diner.
“Who’s Jenny?” he asked.
