Then he folded it and slipped it back under the drawer.
Tara saw.
She said nothing.
That was why Marcus trusted her.
Some people tried to fix pain too fast.
Tara gave it room.
At 7:30 a.m., a road update came through on Sam’s phone.
The highway would remain closed until crews cleared the worst drifts.
At least a few more hours.
Nobody groaned.
Nobody complained.
If anything, the drivers seemed calmer now.
They had survived the night together.
That changed strangers.
Marcus made breakfast from almost nothing.
Pancakes from the last box of mix.
Eggs stretched with diced potatoes.
Toast cut in half.
Coffee poured strong.
Tara found a jar of peach preserves Trina had canned years before and placed it on the counter like treasure.
Marcus stared at it.
“You sure?” Tara asked.
Marcus opened the jar.
The smell hit him first.
Summer.
Sugar.
Trina laughing in the kitchen, telling him not to touch the peaches until they cooled.
He spread the preserves on toast and passed plates down the counter.
Drivers ate quietly.
Not because the food was fancy.
Because it meant something.
At 8:45 a.m., Marcus heard engines.
Not one.
Several.
The sound rolled through the walls, low and steady.
A few drivers lifted their heads.
Sam stood up.
Marcus turned toward the window, but snow had fogged the glass.
He crossed the room and wiped a circle with his sleeve.
What he saw made him stop breathing for a second.
Headlights.
A line of trucks was turning into the lot.
Not the trucks that had already been there.
New ones.
Three.
Then five.
Then more.
They came slow, careful, one after another, pulling into the snow-choked parking lot with the patience of drivers who knew exactly what they were doing.
Their trailers were plain, marked with fictional company names Marcus did not recognize.
Prairie Route Freight.
Midland Supply Hauling.
Cedar Line Transport.
Heartland Produce Carriers.
No big brands.
No flashy signs.
Just working trucks.
Working people.
Sam moved to the door.
Marcus followed.
The cold rushed in as soon as Sam pushed it open, but the air felt different now.
Morning-gray.
Quiet.
Expectant.
Drivers stepped down from their cabs.
Men and women of different ages, bundled in coats, boots crunching in the snow.
Some Marcus recognized from last night.
Many he did not.
They gathered in the parking lot until there were nearly forty people standing before him.
Marcus stood on the diner’s front step in his flannel jacket, too stunned to speak.
Sam turned to him.
“We made some calls.”
Marcus looked at him.
“You made calls?”
Sam shrugged, but his eyes were bright.
“Truckers talk.”
The crowd chuckled softly.
Sam raised his voice.
