The moonless night was so dark Jim Walters didn’t see the deer until it bounded across the headlight beam. He slammed on the brakes but at 55 miles per hour he had to swerve wildly to miss the animal.

Somehow, he managed to keep the tires on the pavement, but he slowed to 45 for the next hour, allowing his nerves to settle a bit. Jim clicked on the radio and messed with the dial but couldn’t get anything to come through clearly. He clicked it back off and concentrated on the road ahead.

The sun was rising in his rearview mirror the next time Jim glanced down at the gas gauge. A quarter-tank left, which was good, but he’d make sure to stop at the next fuel station. Route 133 had been long and straight and was known for its desolation, and for the accidents caused by a weary driver’s eyes losing their focus on the dotted white line down the center of the pavement. He hadn’t seen another vehicle on this road for more than an hour.

Jim left his modest cottage-style home in the mountains of upstate New York two days ago. He considered flying, of course. Actually, that was his first choice. But, this close to the Fourth of July weekend, every flight was booked solid. His ten year old Chrysler wasn’t in the best shape, and blew a water hose in Ohio, its repair causing a delay which took away from the extra day he’d hoped to spend visiting Bill’s mom before the services.

In Jim’s case, there was yet another reason to be there. He owed a debt of gratitude to Bill’s mother, Ann Gregory. She’d taken Jim in after a 30 car pile-up on foggy Interstate 5 left him in a body cast. As a result of his injuries, Jim lost his printing business in San Diego. Mrs. G took care of him in the months to come as if he were her second son, just like the days when he and Bill would sit at her kitchen table after school. After he healed, Jim would accept an offer to set up another shop on the East Coast. In recent years, Mrs. G’s heart was showing the strain of her 70 years on this earth, and now Jim worried about her heart’s reaction to losing Bill.

With the car trouble, Bill’s death and worrying about Bill’s mom, Jim hadn’t been able to sleep. Because of that, trying to find a room along the way had seemed a waste of money. Besides, the sooner he got to Tuscon, the better, he thought to himself.

The sky was clear and the morning air was cool as Jim pulled the Chrysler up to the pump. Other than the near-miss with the deer, the night had been uneventful. Not a drop of rain nor a patch of fog. The station attendant bounced over to the driver’s door.

"Filler-up?"

"Yeah, thanks. You got a men’s room?"

"Round the corner, help yourself."

Jim was glad to stretch his legs a bit, and returned to the driver’s side of his car. He leaned on the fender and looked around. There was nothing but bone dry prairie land in all four directions. He took note of the attendant. His hair, mannerisms and voice were familiar.

" ‘Spect it’ll hit a hundred today,’ the attendant chimed. "Had a helluva night here though. The lightnin’ and thunder and the wind. Haven’t seen a storm like that in nearly 30 years. Musta dumped over an inch of rain."

The pump nozzle clicked off.

"That’ll be seventeen dollars even."

Jim handed the attendant a twenty dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

"Y’know," Jim smiled as he climbed back behind the wheel. "You’re the spitting image of my next door neighbor back in New York. If I hadn’t had dinner with him two nights ago, I’d swear he was right here taking my twenty dollars!"

The attendant smiled and shrugged, a little embarrassed but grateful for the tip.

"No kiddin’. Well, everybody looks like somebody, I guess." He folded the bill and stuffed it in his pocket.

Jim slowly pulled the Chrysler back onto Route 133. The sun was beaming through the back windshield now, illuminating the dashboard instruments with a soft orange glow. The road was as vacant and dry as before, and soon the round tip of a hill began to emerge on the horizon.

"Finally, something other than all this flat land," Jim thought to himself. He figured it would be another 45 minutes to an hour before he’d reach the hill.

The car balked and sputtered as it climbed the steep grade. Jim had to shift down to second and mash the accelerator to the floor to keep the forward motion. Finally reaching the crest, the old car lurched and sped almost out of control down the other side. Jim could feel the tires lose traction on the loose gravel spread across the pavement. He swerved to miss a chunk of metal in the road that resembled part of a truck fender.

"Someone must’ve lost a load along here," he noted. "Must’ve been a hell of a wreck," he grumbled as he worked to miss another chunk. The Chrysler’s back end began to slide toward the edge. Jim eased off the gas, knowing if he braked at all right now, he’d go over the edge and die hitting that rocky canyon some 250 feet below.

"Noooooo, thank you," he said aloud. "One funeral this week is enough."

The car responded, gaining traction again just in time to hit another, larger patch of gravel. Under normal circumstances, Jim was a well-skilled driver. He was sure he was going slow enough this time but his dulled senses from lack of sleep combined with the sharp curve caused the Chrysler to track toward the edge again. He tried to fight the urge to brake as the edge came perilously close. The car began to spin. Jim felt the tire on the front driver’s side begin to dip down on the soft shoulder. His right foot made contact with the brake. He could hear sand and gravel being flung under and around the car. He worked the wheel as fast as he could to keep up with the situation.

A guardrail would have been tearing into his fender right about now, keeping him from careening over the edge, but Jim was glad for its absence as he hung onto the wheel and got all four tires back on the roadway without a scratch.

His foot remained hard against the brake pedal long after the car had stopped. The air was thick with dust. Jim watched it swirl in the wind for a moment, trying to catch his breath. His heart was racing. He peeled his fingers from the steering wheel and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his hands. Maybe he was more tired than he thought. Maybe he should have stopped somewhere last night. He squinted at his watch to see the time. It was almost 9 a.m. He resolved to stop and have some coffee at the next place along the road. No need to push it if he was this tired.

Jim’s hands were still shaking as he worked the gearshift into first and crept the rest of the way down the hill. The roadway was straight again, and the terrain was flat as a table top. Jim was feeling a little better now and pushed the speed back up to 55.

On the horizon, he could just make out the shape of a small building to the left of the road. Maybe a place to get a cup of coffee, he hoped.

The little cafe had brown shingle sides and a flat roof. Jim pulled the Chrysler into the dirt parking lot. The paint on the sign out front was so badly faded, Jim could barely make out the letters that once formed the words:

THE LAST STOP CAFE

A small dust cloud followed Jim’s Chrysler to a spot near the front door. He turned off the key and exhaled, glad to have gotten this far in one piece. The lot was vacant of other cars except an old blue Ford pickup truck with a wooden flatbed on the back, and a rusted out Country Squire station wagon, both of which were parked on the far side of the building. A rusty flagpole with a worn and faded American flag completed the look.

Jim stood by his Chrysler for a moment, gazing in all directions. To the west, the road continued flat and straight. To the north and south, there was nothing but dry, sandy ground and sagebrush as far as the eye could see. To the east, the stretch of road Jim had just traveled, accented on the horizon with the tip of the hill that had caused Jim so much trouble. The mound jutted from an otherwise flat surface like a wart on a pig’s butt.

He took a deep breath and shook off the thoughts of this morning’s incident. He stuffed his keys into the pocket of his brown leather aviator jacket and pulled the zipper up halfway. He stomped his boot on the ground to shake out the wrinkles in the leg of his blue jeans, still crumpled from the bucking bronco-like ride on that gravel spill. Jim’s steed was tame now, setting on four wheels and covered with dust, looking like it’d already been there an age and a half, waiting for its owner to return. It was just a few steps to the cafe door. Jim reached for the handle with his left hand, his right hand still in his jacket pocket.

The screen door swung wide open and closed behind him with a slam as the lightweight wooden frame made contact with the door jamb. A row of screen windows billowed as the door closed. Paddle fans spun at top speed, circulating the smells of fresh breads and cakes throughout. A pea green Formica counter ran the length of the room. Fifteen stainless steel soda stools topped with round seats of orange vinyl stood like soldiers at attention.

An even dozen patrons sat upon these stools, leaving the three stools closest to the door unoccupied. The rest of the café was empty. The patrons, one by one, slowly looked up as if to see who had dared to enter, then silently returned to their meals and coffee.

A woman in her seventies, presumably the owner of this fine establishment, leaned back on the stainless steel sandwich board next to the coffee pot. She was heavily engaged in conversation with one of her patrons. Jim was a little surprised to see so many people in the cafe, since there were only two other vehicles parked out front. Perhaps the rest of them had parked in the rear. Yes, that must be where they parked.

Jim took a seat at a round table topped with lemon yellow Formica. The orange vinyl chair was hard, presumably to keep strangers from overstaying their welcome. A glass jar half-filled with doughnuts sat on the other side of the coffee pot, and beyond that was a thick coconut cake perched on a stainless steel pedestal, the top of the cake nearly touching its protective glass dome. A sign on the wall above the coffee pot read:

BREAKFAST SERVED ALL DAY

A loud sizzling noise and clanking of stoneware dishes was coming from behind a beige curtain at the end of the counter. What must have been the chef pushed his way through the curtain, followed by a billow of steam. The chef waved his hand past his face a few times to cool himself. In his other hand there was a plate he turned his attention to. The patron seated at the end of the counter closest to the curtain said something to the chef and they both laughed.

Seconds later, a 50-ish, rather hefty woman came out from behind the curtain and motioned the chef back into the kitchen. Auburn hair, well-kempt and pulled into a stylish bun on the back of her head, seemed slightly out of place on this brash-looking, heavy-bosomed woman. She reached for a plate and enthusiastically finished off the chocolate creme pie that lie upon it, sliding her finger along the rim of the plate, removing the last bit. She then jabbed her finger into her mouth to lick it clean and set the plate behind the counter with the other dishes to be cleaned.

"I’m a-tryin’ ta clean up my language, but guess I’ll have to settle fer cleanin’ up the leftovers," she declared to the patrons at the counter. They nodded and chuckled quietly, returning to their meals and coffee. She wiped her hands on her apron as she lumbered over to the newcomer.

"What can I do ye fer?" she asked with a wide, toothy grin as she flipped her order pad to a fresh page and touched a pencil to her tongue.

Jim tried to figure out which eye to focus on. One went slightly to the left and one went slightly to the right.

"I’ll have coffee. Black, please."

"Comin’ up!" She flipped her order book closed and stuffed it in her apron pocket with one hand, and stuck the pencil behind her ear with the other.

Jim picked up a newspaper lying on a chair next to him.

TOWN SEARCHES FOR MISSING HORNET
last seen in mayor’s car

It isn’t unusual for local headlines to make little sense when one is from out of town, so Jim just shrugged and kept reading. A story on page two told of plans to renovate an abandoned cafe on the outskirts of town. He reviewed page three. A headline at the top of the page reported the area’s drought had begun its ninth week. The forecast was clear and sunny for the next five days. The Post Office would be closed for the upcoming holiday, and a single car accident occurred at the site of an earlier gravel truck rollover, the second accident to happen on that curve within a 24 hour period. The car, spotted by someone taking photos, contained the body of a man. It appeared he’d been killed instantly, mostly judging from the damage the car sustained despite its being an older model. Officials were still sorting through the clothing strewn down the steep, rocky wall of the ravine in the hopes of identifying the unfortunate driver. A single suitcase had been found, probably thrown from the car as it tumbled. An attempt would be made today to contact the registered owner of the car.

"Must be a bad curve. I must have been really lucky," Jim thought as he set the paper down on the table.

The coffee arrived and was so hot Jim held it up to his mouth and gently blew across the dark liquid’s surface. The waitress left a coffee decanter for Jim to help himself to. His gaze raised from his cup and decanter and focused on the backs of the patrons seated at the counter. Oddly, they were all men. The man seated at the end closest to the door Jim had come through looked strikingly familiar. If Jim hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn it was his Uncle Jack.

Of course, it couldn’t be, because Jack had been dead more than 20 years. It was uncanny, though, how much this man resembled him. His movements as he poured ketchup on the meatloaf, as he drank from the glass, as he raised the fork to his mouth. Little habits that Jim had only seen in one person before, and that one person had been Uncle Jack.

Jim sipped at his coffee, now cool enough to drink, and watched. The man rose and without a word, walked across the cafe toward the restroom. Even this man’s face and hair looked like Uncle Jack! Jim closed his eyes just long enough to help him resist the impulse to get up and say something before the man disappeared behind the closing restroom door. When he opened his eyes again, he looked to the counter and to the man seated next to the stool that had just been vacated by "Uncle Jack."

The man sat hunched over, elbows on the counter, with lots of orange-red hair sticking out from under the edges of a dark green ball cap jammed on his head. "Hmmm," Jim thought to himself. "Just like Ralph’s hair. He used to jam that old beat up green ball cap on his head so hard that his thick hair curled out from under it. Funny how this guy looked so much like him. Even the denim jacket the man was wearing looked like Ralph’s. God, he practically lived in that thing. In fact, Jim recalled, they buried Ralph in that jacket after the tractor accident.

"I must really be tired," Jim muttered to himself. "Everyone’s beginning to look like someone I would know." Jim wiped his face with his hand, just missing the sight of the man getting up from the stool and walking across the cafe. Jim looked up just in time to see the man go into the restroom. He even opened the door the way Ralph would have. Jim was sure he was hallucinating. "Gotta clear my head so I can get to Tuscon." He tried to get a grip on things.

Exhaustion can make a man see things that aren’t there, and that had to be what was happening here. Jim had been driving all night to make up some of the time lost when the Chrysler broke down. Exhaustion. That must be why he had trouble on that hill this morning. He should have stopped somewhere last night, or at least asked the filling station attendant if he could spare a cup of coffee for a weary traveler.

He fought with himself a few more moments, certain that if he could just tough it out a few more hours, he’d be in Tuscon and have a bed to sleep in for the rest of the day and night. Bill’s mom would be fine just having him there, asleep or not.

Jim picked up his coffee and walked to the wall of screen windows. His stomach felt queasy and his head was spinning. Looking toward the horizon he saw miles and miles of nothing but sun-scorched dust. He glanced toward the flag, hanging limp and motionless, when a tumbleweed caught his attention as it drifted across the road. He watched it for a moment, his thoughts fading with a growing awareness of a loud clicking noise coming from the direction of the counter. Turning around, he rubbed his eyes and squinted to focus on the patron now seated next to five empty stools. The man had something in his right hand. The clicking sounded familiar, but Jim couldn’t quite place it yet. His eyes focused clearly as the man turned his head to the side.

The straight jawline, the bump on the nose. The deep-set eyes. And the clicking. Jim thought hard, and nearly choked on his coffee when he realized what he was seeing - and hearing. When Jim was six years old, his best friend was Buddy Baker. Buddy, even at that young age, had a straight jaw, deep-set eyes and a unique bump on his nose that made it come straight out and then angle down. Buddy always carried a little metal "cricket" .. a toy made of metal that was shaped like a beetle’s back with a short strip of metal mounted underneath. If you held the "shell" in your hand and pressed the strip with your thumb, the strip would bend with a loud "Click," and when the pressure was released, the strip would snap back into place with another loud "Click."

It had been decades since those metal "crickets" were popular, or since they could be found anywhere. Yet, this man had one. Not only that, but he was also wearing Buddy’s favorite red, green and black flannel shirt.

Jim began wishing for something more soothing than the coffee in his cup. His hands began to shake as he recalled how Buddy had died when a car ran over him at the age of ten.

The man at the counter had to be in his early thirties, about ten years younger than Buddy would have been if he were still alive. The clicking continued, yet no one else seemed to be bothered by it. Surely they could hear it if Jim could all the way across the cafe. The clicking grew louder and louder and soon Jim couldn’t hear anything else. He made his way back to his table, dropped the coffee cup onto the Formica surface and slapped his hands over his ears. He turned away, only to turn back and look at the man again, fighting the desire to jump up and shout how dare this man impersonate a dead boy. He was nearly doubled over by now, with a knot in his stomach and a pain in his head, praying for the noise to stop. He took one hand from his ear, picked up the coffee decanter, and nervously poured himself a refill.

The clicking stopped. By the time Jim realized this and looked toward the counter, the man who looked like Buddy was gone from the stool. Jim looked toward the door. He looked back at the counter. Then he remembered to look at the restroom door. He caught a glimpse of the red, green and black flannel sleeve as the restroom door closed.

Jim sat back in his chair again, trying desperately to compose himself. "This can’t be happening," he whispered aloud. He put both hands flat on the lemon yellow Formica in an attempt to steady them. He wanted to get out of there, but he didn’t dare try to drive in this condition. He was going to have to get a grip, and get it soon. He could still make Tuscon by afternoon.

He looked for the waitress. The owner was still conversing with the patrons left at the counter. She hadn’t seemed to be bothered by the clicking. It was more as if she never even heard it, but that was impossible. The clicking was being produced less than three feet from her.

Just about that moment Jim realized the first patron to leave the counter, the one who looked like Uncle Jack, hadn’t returned from the restroom. He looked to the counter. There were six stools empty. He slowly allowed his gaze to settle upon the man sitting on the seventh stool, fearing what he might see.

Jim’s heart was in his throat as he instantly recognized the face. This had to be a hallucination. The long hours of driving, the lack of sleep, the shock of Bill’s death. He was definitely seeing things, because the man on the seventh stool was Bill! Jim knew that was impossible. Bill’s heart stopped in the middle of a board meeting. It would have been his first presentation as the company’s new production manager. He’d been instrumental, not only in improving morale throughout the company, but in raising production totals to almost double last year’s numbers. Jim stared at the man on the stool. The man had to be Bill, but it just couldn’t be. Bill’s body was in a funeral home in Tuscon!

Jim stared at the man mimicking Bill’s laugh, his way of talking with his hands, and a trademark fashion he had of doing a quick out-stretch of his arms, which usually caused the cuffs of his shirt to ride above his wrists. The latter habit looked particularly humorous once Bill began wearing business suits.

Most of Jim’s memories of Bill were from their high school days. During the summers they’d both work as farmhands. Bill always wore faded denim overalls and an old gray flannel shirt. The same gray flannel shirt the man at the counter was wearing. Jim looked closer, trying not to be too obvious. He remembered a stain on the right elbow of Bill’s shirt, caused by a greasy joint on the farm equipment. He strained a bit to see if this man’s shirt had such a stain. After a moment, the man moved his arm just so, and there was the stain, right where Jim remembered it to be.

Jim watched as the man silently got up and walked across the café. The man opened the door to the restroom and went in. The door closed behind him. Jim jumped up and followed, determined to put an end to this nightmare. He’d go in there and see who these men were exactly, and see that they weren’t at all who they were appearing to be from across the room. But when Jim reached for the restroom door, it wouldn’t open. He tried turning the knob again. It was locked. His knock on the door went unanswered. He knocked again, but nothing. Jim called out, "Hey!" but the only response was silence. Jim put his ear to the door. There was no sound coming from the restroom. There were four men in there now, surely there would be some conversation, some water running, something.

Jim looked around. What was going on here? He called over to the patrons sitting at the counter. "The restroom door is locked. Can anyone help me?" The men continued to drink coffee and converse as if no one else was there. Jim stomped over to the man sitting on the stool closest to the kitchen, tapping him on the shoulder from behind. "Hey fella, didn’t you hear me? I’d like some help here."

The man kept sipping his coffee. Feeling a bit put out, Jim walked around to face the man directly. "Hey fella. I said…," Jim looked at the man’s face and froze. He looked down the counter at the other seven faces and could feel the knot in his stomach again. The man directly in front of him, as well as the others, were all familiar to Jim. Every one of these men looked identical to people Jim knew. But not just any people. These men were dead! Jim looked down the line again. Names started popping into his head.

Joe, whose lookalike was seated face to face with Jim now, had taken a handful of pills one night after having an awful fight with his boss.

Art thought his GTO could beat the train to the crossing.

Roger had joined the Army when he was 17, loved it so much he was going to stay for life. Three years later, during an exercise, he was an unfortunate casualty of "friendly fire."

Each face had a story. Each man had died. And now Jim was looking right at them. He tried calling out their names, but they all sat and sipped and talked as if he weren’t there at all. Jim backed away, looking wildly over his shoulders and all around. The waitress. Where was the waitress? She hadn’t said what her name was but he remembered seeing a name tag on her apron that read "Rose." Jim called out, then he shouted as he reached for the curtain to the kitchen, "ROSE!"

She met him head-on. Her huge body blocked his vision and his path. She just about blocked the whole doorway. She looked menacingly at Jim.

"I wouldn’t go back there."

"Why not?"

"Just not a good idear," she stood without moving.

The sound of dishes clanking in the kitchen got louder. The knot in Jim’s stomach took a hard twist. His head throbbed. He was now confused, irritated and frightened. He managed to quickly compose himself in an attempt to hide the insane feelings swirling through his head.

"What’s going on here," he demanded to know. "I’m exhausted, not crazy, but none of this is making any sense." He began waving his arms. "There are dead men at the counter, and they’re walking through a door I cannot seem to open. Now why can’t you just tell me what’s happening here?"

Rose let Jim run out of steam before she guided him to the other side of the counter and back to the table topped with lemon yellow Formica. Jim stopped protesting and looked at the seven patrons still sitting at the counter. Another had gotten up and gone to the restroom during Jim’s tantrum. Jim looked toward the screen door, but it wasn’t there anymore. A wall with screen windows, just like all the rest, was in its place. He turned to Rose, the knot tightening again.

"What are you doing to me?" he demanded. He ran toward the curtain that led to the kitchen. The chef appeared with a large butcher knife in his hand. Jim rushed back to where Rose was standing in the middle of the café.

"Okay. The game’s over. How do I get out of here?" Jim tried to reason.

"You’ll walk through that door," Rose gestured toward the restroom.

"I’ve already tried that. Haven’t you been listening? Everyone else seems to be able to go through but when I get there it’s locked! How can that be?"

"You’re in-between."

"What? What do you mean, in-between?"

"Why doncha take another look at yer paper, Mr. Walters?" With that, Rose walked back into the kitchen, firmly closing the curtain behind her, effectively cutting off Jim’s protests.

Jim scuffed his was back to his table and plopped down on the seat like a schoolboy admitting defeat. He unfolded the paper and slapped it onto the table. Reluctantly, he started to read the front page again. In large letters, it read, "The Desert Gazette." It came from a town called Orwell, and was printed daily. Jim looked for the date on the paper.

There was a blank space where the date normally would have been on such a paper. Jim flipped through the pages. There was no date on the inside pages, no date on the weather box, no date on the index either. He began to rifle through the dozen or so pages, double-checking, becoming infuriated, then throwing the paper down onto the table in a heap. Page three’s headline about the car wreck caught Jim’s eye. He snapped the paper up again, eyes narrowing to slits as the words penetrated his fear and exhaustion. An older model car, a New York man. The second accident in 24 hours where the gravel truck had crashed. He stood up, glaring at Rose, who had wandered back out of the kitchen.

"What kind of joke is this? What kind of sick joke is this? Are you trying to tell me that’s me in the paper? Well that’s just impossible, because, you see, I am here. I am breathing and drinking coffee, and talking to you."

He shook his head. "I’ve got to be seeing things. I’ve got to be hallucinating! I’m so exhausted I’m imagining all of this. Hell I’m probably imagining YOU!" He pointed at Rose just as he slumped back into the chair again with his head in his hands.

"I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a funeral – Bill’s funeral – to get to." He was almost pouting.

He stood straight up, wiped his face with his hands and very respectfully said to Rose, "Now, if you’ll just let me be on my way."

Jim’s arms were straight at his sides, fists clenched, and the look on his face was like that of a drunk when trying to convince the DUI officer in front of him that is stone cold sober. He looked past Rose to the patrons at the counter, who were still, one by one, walking across the café and through the restroom door, never to be seen again. There were only three men left at the counter now. The owner was still chatting with the remaining men, keeping their coffee cups filled to the brim. Jim looked back at Rose again.

"You," he pointed, "You’re the only one here that seems to know what’s going on. You tell me how to get out of here."

Rose walked over to the table with the lemon yellow Formica where Jim was standing. She calmly wiped the table top clean, picked up the newspaper and re-folded it, then set the paper back down. She picked up the coffee cup and the decanter and without a word she took them behind the counter.

Jim called after her, "So what does that mean, I get to leave now?"

Rose waddled slowly back over to Jim’s table. She looked him square in the eye and flatly said, "Ya hafta wait yer turn."

Jim looked past her and saw there were only two men left sitting at the counter. The third one must have gotten up without Jim noticing. He felt the knot move from his stomach to his throat. What was going to happen when the last patron took that walk? What if Jim refused to follow? Did the door marked ‘restroom’ lead to the outside? Was it really the only way out of this nightmare? Was any of this real?

Was he dreaming? Had he fallen asleep before getting out of the car? None of this could really be happening, so that must be the answer. He’d fallen asleep, and now he’d wake up and drive on, traveling the rest of the way to Tuscon. He wanted, tried, desperately to wake up.

Jim sat down again, searching for something reasonable to say. He watched the next man, who looked just like Jim’s college professor, Mr. Thurgins – who was killed in a car accident just two years ago – get up and walk through the restroom door. It was like watching an hourglass. When it ran out of sand, when the last patron took that walk, according to everything else going on here, Jim’s own life would be over. He was sitting there, powerless to stop the progress of time. The last patron turned on the stool and stood up to walk to the restroom. As the man turned his back to the counter, Jim saw the owner fade into thin air. The clanking sound in the kitchen stopped. The paddle fans slowly spun to a stop without anyone flipping a switch. He swung around to look at his car parked out front, only to see it disappear without moving an inch.

Rose still stood in the middle of the café. Jim’s head was in his hands. He looked up at Rose, who had a gentle smile for him.

"It’s time to go now."

Jim sat there, hoping, wishing, trying to wake up. Rose came around to Jim’s side of the table, gesturing the way to the restroom door. Seeing no use in prolonging this torture, Jim reluctantly got up and looked one more time at Rose. She nodded and closed her eyes. Jim walked to the restroom door, and grasped the doorknob. It turned with ease, and the door swung wide open. Jim walked through, letting the door swing shut by itself.

There was a slight pause, and then the clanking noises began in the kitchen again. The paddle fans started up with a slow spin at first, then gained speed as twelve new patrons gradually appeared at the counter. The owner poured one of them a fresh cup of coffee as Rose dried a glass that had just been washed.

The patron seated closest to the screen door looked up to the sound of a car pulling into the dirt parking lot. Rose stared, emotionless, and whispered to herself, "That’s the mayor’s car."

She watched as the lean male figure exited the driver’s door, brushing the dust from his baseball uniform and looking around as if he’d never been here before. In cursive yellow lettering on his black jersey was the team name "Hornets".

A few moments later, the café’s screen door swung wide open, then slammed shut as the patrons at the counter looked up, one by one, as if to see who had dared to enter this place…..

#30#

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