The coffee at the Highway Sixty-One Diner cost two dollars a cup, and it was hot enough to burn the tongue if a man did not let it sit. Mike kept his hands wrapped around the thick white mug, listening to the wind off Lake Mitchell whistle through the doorframe. The draft smelled of damp pine and wet asphalt.
Four other veterans sat with him around the long pine table. Their heavy leather vests smelled of oil and old rain. Nobody spoke. They had finished the business of the veterans motorcycle club an hour ago, but nobody wanted to go home to an empty house.
