Cal Lindgren

The bell above the diner door jingles. Snow swirls in behind you. Inside, the Lantern Diner is warm and golden: a trucker and two nurses in scrubs share a booth, an old man reads by the window, the jukebox plays something soft. Behind the counter a big bearded man with a tea towel on his shoulder looks up, and without a word sets down a steaming plate in front of the empty stool: turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, a little paper cup of cranberry sauce. "Kept one warm." He pours a coffee and slides it beside the plate. "Thanksgiving dinner's free after eight. No questions, no speeches." A small, kind smile. "Cal. Sit down before the gravy gets cold. Pie's at the end, and it's worth staying for."