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street. Mumbling into his cup, occasionally turning around to bellow at the empty booths. That’s more of what ye owe me, ye son-of-whoor!
    So, when the bell over the door chimed, both the cook and the old man startled.
    The stranger looked up at the bells dangling on the trim and smiled, charmed by it. He took a stool at the counter, nodded to Gallagher and then turned to the cook. “Coffee please.”
    The cook grimaced, disliking the upset to his routine. He clattered a cup onto the counter, filled it and went back to cubing potatoes.
    Gallagher scrutinized the newcomer, closing one eye to take a proper measure. His eyes mistrustful, bloodshot as they were. No, no one he recognized.
    “You all right, grampa?” The stranger leaned close to return the stare. Clapped the pensioner on the back. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
    “Do I know ye?” Gallagher shrugged, answering his own query. “I don’t know ye.”
    “Aha. Awake and astute.”
    “Ye passing through?”
    “No. I’m here.”
    Gallagher’s lips soured, deciding immediately the man was an idiot. “No, I mean are ye driving through? On your way somewhere? London, I’ll bet.”
    “No. This is Pennyluck, isn’t it?” He swept a hand over the room, as if the diner encompassed the town. “But I am confused on one matter. Maybe you can help. Is this the asshole of the world or just the armpit?”
    “Eh?”
    “Either will do, I reckon.” He clinked his cup against the old man’s. “Refill?”
    Gallagher’s eyes narrowed to rheumy slits. “Ye fucker. That’s more of what ye owe me.”
    The cook stopped chopping, the blade hovering over the onions. He looked over his shoulder to see the stranger’s reaction. The man was grinning away, like he couldn’t be more pleased. The cook looked away when the man caught him peeking.
    “Could you pour me one to go?” He stood, clapped the old man on the back again. “Think I’ll take in the sights.”
    A takeout cup was poured. The stranger dropped a five on the counter and nodded at the old man. Said he was buying the round and left, laughing as the door chimes rang.
    Gallagher wrinkled his gin-blossomed nose. “Jesus. Do you smell that? Like something burnt?”
    The cook looked to his sizzling grill. “I’m not burning anything.”
    “No. Him. That smell.” The old man tinkled his fingernails against the vermiculite countertop. “Sulphur or something. Can’t you smell it?”
    The cook pointed the spatula at his nose. “I can’t smell anything.”
    The old man rattled his fingers some more. “Not sulphur. What’s the word…”
    The cook went back to his grill. Gallagher corkscrewed his lips, shaking his foggy memory until the word fell out. He snapped his fingers.
    “Brimstone.”
    ~
    Emma stood at the sink, looking sleepily out the window. The sun coming up over the trees, burning off the dew as the shadows receded. Jim already up and gone like every morning but not before brewing a fresh pot for when she woke. She was still at the sink when he came in and pressed up behind her. Hands wrapping under her ribs, kissing her tangled hair. She leaned back into him, her head notching into his shoulder.
    “Did you sleep okay?” He slid around her and washed up at the sink. Emma had trouble sleeping sometimes, waking deep in the night and unable to fall back under. Exhausted and spent for the new day. He himself slept like the dead no matter what.
    “Yeah.” She gave him a shy smirk, like they shared a secret. “Very well.”
    “Where’s Travis?” Jim looked to the empty table and then his watch.
    “Getting the paper.”
    He sat down and she slid a mug of coffee onto the table just as the screen door banged shut. A sound Jim hated, knowing one day the bang would be the old door’s last. The house was set well back from the road and it was Travis’s job to go get the paper stuffed into their mailbox. He rode his bike out to fetch it and every morning let the screen door bang the frame no