Jory Rae's

Gabriela's head hurt. It had for days. She felt like there was a gap running down the middle of her brain getting wider all the time. She tread lightly in her own thoughts. She was afraid to play the trumpet and terrified to stop. Three days after her last meal, she was passing Jory Rae's. She was sick with hunger and exposure. She fell, catching herself on the front window of the diner. A waitress, also staggering and bleary-eyed, came out and pulled her in. Gabriela smelled booze and coffee on her breath and felt long-nailed hands too dirty to serve food haul her to her feet. The stranger led her inside, took her to a booth, and, without a word, put a hot plate of fries down on the table. Bottom lip quivering, Gabriela ate them, one by one.