“God no,” she said with a grimace. Rhiannon fished a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her hip pocket. She wouldn’t light one up at his table unless he was a smoker, too, but it made for more comfortable sitting. “I’m from Michigan. But I have been staying out here, so you’re probably right.” She took her turn studying the man to decide if he looked familiar, too. Maybe. Most times when she ate in the diner, Rhiannon sat in the corner with a sketchbook and a plate of fries, giving herself permission to lower her guard and ignore the room.

“I’m Rhiannon. And you sound like my dead grandmother. Ireland, yeah?” She shook a bangle down the length of a freckled forearm so that it wouldn’t clatter against the tabletop.