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under his eyes. At first glance Henry had seemed full of buoyant, invigorating energy, but upon closer examination she saw he was quite thin and pallid, almost sickly. The phrase
death-row inmate
clanged in her head, and Rachel reassessed her initial observation.
    No, he looks like death. Or someone close to death.
    Regardless, Henry continued to eat steadily throughout the day. After finishing his breakfast, he ordered a tuna-fish sandwich on rye and a glass of milk. Rachel topped up his coffee—almost filling it past the overflow point in her daze—and went back to Reg in the kitchen with his order.
    “Maybe he’s one of those food critics,” Reg said, taking an enormous bottle of mayonnaise out of the big, steel-doored walk-in. “Sometimes they travel in disguise.”
    “I don’t think so,” Rachel said.
    By the time noon rolled around, Rachel had filled Henry’s coffee cup at least a dozen times. He had polished off the tuna-on-rye and ordered a side of French fries with gravy. He told Rachel that you could tell a lot about a restaurant by the quality of their gravy.
    At three PM, Josie Sutton pulled up in her lime-green VW bug with the bumper sticker that said TENNE-SEEIN’ IS TENNE-BELIEVIN’! She was wearing her waitress uniform and the magenta hoop earrings that she had bought off eBay because they supposedly once belonged to Tammy Wynette.
    She gave Henry a passing look as she strolled through the swing door. She was reaching for her time-card in the slot on the wall when Rachel stopped her.
    “What’s wrong?” Josie asked.
    “Do you mind if I take your shift today?”
    “What? Why?”
    Rachel told her about Henry. Josie raised one pencil-drawn eyebrow. “You got a crush or sumthin’?”
    “No,” Rachel said, flushing slightly. “I just know that if I go home now I’ll be wondering about it for the rest of the week.”
    Josie thought it over for a second—which was about as long as Josie ever thought about anything—and said: “Okay. Sure. Whatever. Matt Damon’s gonna be on Oprah today, anyway.” And she left.
    An hour later, Rachel came out of the kitchen to wipe down the counter for about the forty-seventh time that day. Henry was reading his newspaper.
    As she moved along the counter, Rachel turned her back to him. When he spoke she dropped her cloth and almost cried out in surprise.
    “I’ve been in here for just over five hours and I haven’t seen a single person come in.”
    Rachel let out a long, steadying breath as she crouched down and picked up the cloth. “Things fall off pretty quick after the morning crowd leaves,” she said. “You’re really making me earn my minimum wage today.”
    “If you don’t have many customers, then why such a big menu?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”
    Rachel turned around and leaned against one of the counter stools. “The owner, Reg, is also the cook. He says offering a wide variety of food puts a certain amount of creativity into an otherwise mundane job.”
    “Seriously?”
    “That’s what he says,” Rachel said, aware that Reg might be listening.
    “Well,” Henry said, raising his voice slightly, “he’s an absolute artist in the kitchen.” He folded his newspaper and picked up the menu again.
    “More?” Rachel couldn’t quite mask her surprise.
    “Shocking, isn’t it?” Henry smiled again; this one was thinner, not as forced as the others.
    “It’s just . . .” Rachel contemplated for a moment, then threw caution aside. “You’re eating like a condemned man.”
    “Condemned,” Henry repeated, and looked away. “That’s funny.” But the look on his face said it wasn’t funny at all. “I’m not condemned. This is all voluntary. Very, very voluntary.” The look went away and the thousand-watt smile came back on again, like a switch in his head had been flipped. “Could I get the meatloaf? Mashed potatoes, roast carrots, and a tall glass of milk?”
III
    As Reg went to work on Henry’s