The vast expanse of stove is clean; the floor is still wet from mopping. Green plastic racks of clean plates and mugs and glasses and silverware are stacked beside the sinks, but the middle sink still overflows with soaking pots and pans in grey industrial- strength suds. A clean dry towel, also grey, is draped over the rusty pipe that crosses above the sink. A medical text is propped on the toweled pipe, its pages slightly damp and wrinkled from the steam. A jumble of letters and symbols is scribbled in fading ink on the bottom edge of the lefthand page, and a cracked Bic pen hangs from the pipe, tied there by a blue hair ribbon.
The phone rings in the night manager's office, and Charlie raises his head from the stack of receipts. It rings three times before he lifts a tired hand to answer, rubbing the other hand across bleary eyes. His eyes clear as he listens to the clipped voice, and his pinched face grows tighter, compressing into itself. When Charlie puts the phone down, he is silent for a long moment, before calling out in a reedy voice, "Jenni! Jenni, come in here!" She doesn't answer, and Charlie lifts his heavy body out of the wooden chair, walking across the diner to stand in the blue doorway. His voice is softer now, as the girl turns to face him, "Jenni, come inside. It's the hospital about your son."