True power dwells not in the lightâit is the light.
Abbie slipped on her apron and tied her hair up tightly. She hoped sheâd be busy tonight. Her rent was overdue. The bank called todayâbut she didnât answer.
As customers came and went, she kept a running count of her tips in her head. She glanced at the clock. One more hour until closing; it wasnât enough. She could feel her heartbeat quickening, a silent reminder of her worsening situation. She thought of her son, Jimmy, cleaning chicken coops to help out with the bills.
The last customer of the night sat alone at the end of the bar. Abbie had never seen him in the diner before. When she brought his check, he smiled but said nothing.
He left quickly. No tip.
As she was locking up, a man pushed the door open. He smelled of campfire smoke and his disheveled appearance frightened her.
âThatâs just Joe. Heâs here to pick up his dinner,â the diner owner said, smiling. âEveryone knows Joe. He lives under the train trestle.â
Joe always sat at the end of the bar while he waited for his food to be ready.
With his care package in hand, Joe walked slowly but deliberately toward Abbie. As he approached, she noticed the scarring around his head. Her gaze dropped to the dark stain beneath his ribcage.
He looked into her eyes. “You will be okay. You are not alone. I never left you.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out five wadded hundred-dollar bills.
Abbie fell to her knees. He walked out into the darkness.