My psychological landscape is a grotty-looking, empty, 24-hour diner located on a two-lane highway in the flat middle of the country, depending on night owls and truckers for survival. A place where only the desperate linger.

I’m in the booth furthest back, not eating, maybe drinking water or coffee or soda. The waitress is bored, leaning against the counter, cracking her gum, and examining her bright-red glue-on fingernails to see if they need replacement. She’s sixtyish, her legs have seen better days, and her skin is the color of nicotine.

Of course it’s raining, and the lights are dim inside, brightening only with each pair of passing headlights. The only sounds are the rain dripping through leaks in the roof and trucks splashing at speed through the puddles on the highway.