#implied runaway

He cut into the crispy steak, dousing the bite in the cream gravy, then shoving it into his mouth. Inelegant, sure, but hot and delicious. No, it wasn’t his mother’s escabeche or Bunny’s chili cheese fries but it gave him the same feeling. His insides going all squishy and soft and warm at the taste. 

Besides, Jackson couldn’t cook for shit. He’d never needed to. 

He’d been subsisting on canned food, Mazar’s menu, and the bar’s offerings since he rolled into town nearly two months earlier. Perhaps not the healthiest of decisions, but it wasn’t the worst he’d ever made. He was nineteen and on his own. No one could tell him no, and he could handle a little indulgence now that he had gotten his act tightened up. That afternoon, he had just enough money that afternoon to pay for it all -- no washing dishes or bussing tables anymore.

“Am I going to see you every day this week, Walker?” Dora smirked at him, appearing as if by teleportation as she always seemed to do. She watched him from behind the counter, a pencil tucked into her greying hair, a fist at her hip. Her parents had started the joint back in the 1940s. It said so on the menu.

“Maybe.” Jackson swallowed.

“And you’re going to eat all that?”

“Yeah. I didn’t eat breakfast.” Jackson cut another bite. “And you make the best plates in the country.”

Dora rolled her eyes. “Like you’ve eaten anywhere else to know.”

Jackson shrugged and shoved more food into his mouth. He flashed her his best mouth-full-of-food smile, already organizing his next bite. Mashed potatoes dipped into the gravy, a few green beans speared onto the end for color. It warmed him up, top to bottom.

“Alright, slow down there, chipmunk,” Dora leaned forward onto her elbows, inspecting his face. “You were shivering when you got in. You doing okay out there all by yourself?”

“Handling it.”

Dora was unconvinced. “Try again.”

Jackson set down his fork as he chewed, then swallowed. “I’m hanging in, but I’m fine. Just gotta get used to making coffee when I’m half awake, y’know?”

“I think you need new boots and a better coat,” Dora said. The bell above the door chimed. She glanced up and gave a single nod that said it was a regular customer. She pushed herself back up, flicking her pencil at his nose. “When you pay, I’ve got a list.”

“Uh-huh.” Jackson stared at her, a little miffed. He braced for a lecture, picking up the mug of soup to cover his frown.

“And you’ve got the cash?”

“Yup.” He dug into his pocket, showing her a wad of bills folded in half. “Got a job at The Whip two nights ago. No more dishes for me.”

Dora chuckled, sliding his ticket towards him. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Walker. New boots when I see you next, got it?”

“Got it.”

“And go by the hunting store and talk to Ed. He’s a stove lighting pro.”

Jackson let his mouth fall open, read to protest or ask how she knew. But Dora had already strolled away, towards the newest customer then her usual post behind the register up front. He blinked, then filled his mouth with soup. Dora knew because Dora knew. It seemed like bad luck to question it at all.

He shook it off. He finished half the soup before he found the coffee again. Then back to the potatoes and gravy and crisped-up steak. He’d take his time sitting here, warm up and fill himself. Then he’d get a pair of boots, maybe some new socks. He had some time before his shift start. Shoving potatoes into his mouth, Jackson Ureña mulled over the town he’d found himself in. Deep in the Adirondacks, somewhere close to the border; practically a whole world away from where he’d grown up, what should have been his home.