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of rainbow suspenders. “A trucker named Eddie Ray said if I wanted a good meal I had to stop in at the Crescent.”
    “You found it,” Rachel said. “In all its glory.”
    “Do you have an extensive menu?”
    Rachel blinked. In the five years she had been waitressing, she had never heard that question before. “I’m sorry?”
    “Well, I have some time to kill—and an appetite to kill, for that matter—and I was just wondering if your menu has a wide selection. I brought a newspaper—” he patted the rolled up copy of the
Register
under his arm “—and I plan to bivouac in one of your booths for the day. If that’s all right by you.”
    “Bivo-what?”
    “Bivouac,” he said. “Camp out.”
    Rachel was speechless. She was tempted to look out the wide front window and see if there was a camera crew out there. She felt like she was on one of those reality TV shows where they play practical jokes on unsuspecting people.
    “We have a pretty good menu . . . I guess.” She made a vague gesture. “Would you like to see it?”
    Henry held up his hand. “No need,” he said, still smiling. “I trust you.”
    Rachel watched as he went over and took a seat in a corner booth. He put the newspaper on the table and picked up a laminated menu. He began looking it over with the wide-eyed exuberance of a scholar perusing a rare folio edition.
    Five minutes later, he summoned Rachel over.
    “All set?” she asked.
    “Yes. I’d like the Full Moon breakfast—scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns, toast (white bread, please), melon, and orange juice. I’d also like an extra side of bacon.”
    “Coffee?”
    “Constantly,” Henry said, and grinned.
    Rachel didn’t like that grin. There was something artificial and a little unsettling about it. It stretched too tightly across the skin on his face. Like a skeleton’s grin.
    She turned away and went through the swing door to the kitchen. Reg was just coming back in, taking off his coat and hanging it on the wooden peg next to the door.
    “We have a customer,” Rachel told him, and recited Henry’s order.
    “Really?” Reg said, amused. “Hell must have frozen over.” He slipped his apron on over his head.
    “Guy looks kind of weird. Says he hitched in with Eddie Ray.”
    Reg dipped his head down so he could see through the partition in the wall. “He looks harmless enough. Although I don’t know many bums who ever used a newspaper for anything other than a blanket.”
    “I don’t think he’s a bum,” Rachel said. “He seems kind of . . . strange.”
    Reg shrugged. “Strange or not, he’s got an appetite.”
II
    Ten minutes later, Rachel emerged from the back with Henry’s order on a large serving tray. As she dished it out, Henry moved each plate around like chips on an oversized bingo card. When he had everything where he wanted, he looked up at Rachel with that same beaming grin.
    “This all looks great. Really great.”
    Rachel smiled politely, tucked the empty tray under her arm, and returned to the kitchen.
    Henry picked up his fork and knife and began to cut up the four sausages on one of the side plates. When he was done, he cut up his eggs, forked some hash browns on top of them, and began to eat.
    Rachel watched him through the partition. Henry didn’t seem to be aware of her staring, and that was good because she couldn’t seem to make herself stop. She followed his fork as it scooped up eggs and sausage and hash browns and deposited them into his mouth. He chewed mechanically, as if he were a machine and the food was his fuel.
    He seemed to relish the food, closing his eyes and letting out long, satisfied sighs of pleasure between bites. It was like sex. He wasn’t just eating the food; he was savouring it. Like he had never eaten before. Or might never eat again.
    Like a death-row inmate
, she thought.
    Henry took a big gulp of coffee, tilting his head back to get the last drop. Watching from the partition, Rachel noticed dark smudges