Invoice
An all-night pancake house sits beside an oblivious interstate. Diners come and go and go and come, expressing no interest in the whos and the whys and the wherefores. They order their predictable food, eat their runny eggs, pay their insignificant tabs, leave their mediocre tips. It’s doubtful they will stop in again - there’s little need to stake a claim.
Alice sits in a corner booth and pokes at her waffle, painfully aware of the value of almost everything in her field of vision.
