The sun doesn’t give life, Becky thought. The sun takes it away.

Becky saw how the sun stole people’s energy as they staggered towards the restaurant in the blasting desert heat, their faces shriveled, their bodies drained. The sunlight stripped colors from billboards, bleached buildings bone-white, and spirited away youth and beauty, never to return it. Becky always wore a hooded jacket and gloves when she was outside, even on the hottest days. The other waitresses made fun of her, but she would smile, knowing that she would keep raking in the fat tips much longer than they would. Even Big Mike, who owned the diner and did most of the cooking, gave her a hard time, asking her at least once a week if she was cold.

Now, if they only made something to shield me from time, she thought. The face in the rear view mirror was still pretty, but every year Mother Nature re-drew it a little less accurately. Becky finished checking her makeup, pulled her hood over her brown hair and glanced at the pistol in her hip holster. She got out of the car.

It was going to be busy, judging by the number of cars in the parking lot and the fact that none of them belonged to Brittney or Sophie, who were supposed to be helping her with the lunch rush. Late food equaled bad tips, even if she didn’t have to split them with the absent girls. Sure enough, when she opened the door, nearly every booth and table were full and Hector the busboy, Luis the side cook, and Ahmed the dish washer were all running plates of food out to the guests. Becky lowered her hood and took off her gloves.

“Where have you been?” Big Mike bellowed from the kitchen’s service window. The grills sizzled, the fryers hissed and beeped and the radio played something upbeat but it was mostly lost in the din.

“I’m scheduled for 11, Mike. It’s 10:57.” Becky said as she walked past him. She took an apron from a hook next to the time clock computer. She put on the apron, logged in, unfastened the top button on her blouse, and headed back to the window.

"You know, in Japan, workers show up an hour early and stay an hour late, and they do it for free,” Big Mike snapped at her, a metal spatula in each hand as he worked on two different dishes at the same time.

“Well, why don’t you hire some Japanese people, then?” she shot back, and began loading plates on to her forearm.

“I might just do that. Probably get less lip from them, too,” Big Mike grunted.

“You love my lips, Big Mike,” she teased.

“I love your butt more, because if I can see it, it means you’re working,” he said.

“You like my butt? My goodness. What will the boys down at the Rainbow Room say?” Becky grinned and whisked the plates away before he could reply. She waded out into the customers like a nurse on a battle front, meeting their cries with soothing care.

The name of Big Mike’s restaurant was The Royal Fork. One time, Mike had overheard Sophia calling it “The Greasy Spoon.” “What’s wrong with that?” he had retorted. “Grease makes things taste good. You ever go into one of those places where it’s as clean as a hospital? That’s what the food tastes like…from a hospital. If you think this place is so filthy, go clean something.”

The Royal Fork was the only restaurant on a long stretch of highway in the Nevada desert. There wasn’t even a proper town for miles, but the diner was an oasis for people who hadn’t wanted to eat junk food at the “Gas and Go” at the outskirts of Eureka but were too hungry to wait until they got to Eastgate. For years, the customers had been same—truckers, cops, park rangers from Great Basin, tourists on the way to Tahoe.

The customers were different now.

In the first few days after The Event, it had been first responders; paramedics, fire fighters and of course, reporters. Then came the search and rescue teams and the scientists in their horn-rimmed glasses and hazmat suits. There were soldiers and National Guard; they’d been deployed to every city in America to keep the peace since that day. But they couldn’t be everywhere, and that’s why Big Mike had bought all his girls guns and took them out behind the diner to shoot at bottles. On her first try, Becky had flinched at the noise and jerked her arm, emptying the gun without hitting anything. She hadn’t gotten much better since then, but Big Mike said that it didn’t matter; the sight of the gun on her hip would make people think twice. He told her to think of the pistol as part of her work uniform. Big Mike always took care of his employees, and she was grateful that she didn’t have to pay him back with any more than hard work. He was rumored to be married to a sharp-tongued Vietnamese woman who would have castrated him if he ever tried anything with the waitresses at the Royal Fork.

Becky came to her senses to realize that the rush had passed. She’d been smiling and serving and making small talk for two and a half hours, all on automatic pilot. There were only a few customers left and most of them were drinking coffee and staring out the window. She took a moment to lean against the wall next to the kitchen, and Big Mike handed her a fresh cup of coffee. She nodded her thanks.

Just then, the door opened, and a man walked in with two young girls. Becky put down her cup.

“I can take this one,” Big Mike offered.

“No, I’ve got it,” Becky said. She picked up three menus and a fresh smile and met them at the cash register counter.

“Hello,” she said brightly. “Is someone else joining you today?”

The man was tall and, despite several days of beard growth and an obvious lack of sleep, could have been called classically handsome. He looked unwashed and underfed, though, and wore old jeans, sneakers, an army jacket, and a baseball cap pulled down low. The two blonde girls, whom Becky guessed to be about eight and thirteen, combined the best features of the man with what was obviously a gorgeous mother somewhere. They were also dressed down, tired and dirty.

The man’s eyes were lowered, and he raised them to look at her. Each of his hands went to one of the girl’s heads and lightly touched it, while at the same time drawing them a little closer to him.

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s just us.”

Becky nodded and pushed her smile wider. “Right this way. I’ve got the perfect table for you.” She led them to a corner. The girls sat down silently and looked at their hands. The man hesitated.

“Is everything okay?” Becky asked. What a stupid question, she thought. He was standing in the middle of the aisle, staring at the table.

“Miss,” he said. “Can you take the condiments away, please?” He was calm, but she could tell that underneath a thin layer of politeness, he was furious.

The condiments? Becky looked at the table in confusion. Each table had a portable metal rack that held basic flavorings for customers; ketchup, mustard, hot and soy sauces, little packets of jam, sugar, and shakers for the salt and pepper. Why would someone not want—?

She understood.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. She picked up the rack.

“Not your fault,” he said, and sat down. His anger seemed to have disappeared.

“You have a look at those menus, and I’ll be back with you soon, okay? Can I get you started on some drinks?” she asked them

.

The younger girl looked up. “Daddy, can we have Lemon Coke?”

“Not today, baby,” he said. “Bring them some orange juice and…just some water for me, thanks.”

“Sure thing, I’ll be right back,” Becky said. She walked quickly from the table, her cheeks burning.

Big Mike stopped her on the way.“What’s going on?” he asked.

“That table of three asked me to take this away,” she said.

“That’s because my food doesn’t need any spices,” Big Mike said, but stopped when he saw that she wasn’t in a joking mood.

Suddenly, he got it.

“Why? Because of the—”

Becky nodded.

“I never even thought about that before. What do we do?”

“If we take it off all the tables, people will be forced to ask for it,” Becky said. “That might make it worse.”

“Nobody else has ever reacted like that,” Big Mike said.

“Mike, I think these people were there.”

“There weren’t any survivors. We would have heard about it,” he said.

“Something happened to them. They’re in pretty bad shape.”

“The guy probably just lost his job in the crash,” Big Mike said. “Don’t go around talking about survivors. I don’t want the kind of attention that’s going to bring us.”

Becky sighed and took the condiment tray to the kitchen. She filled up two glasses of orange juice from the dispenser on the counter, poured some ice water from a pitcher, grabbed three straws and set everything on a round, cork-lined tray. She picked it up, balanced it on one hand, turned around, and almost collided with the man, who was on his way to the bathroom. The drinks wobbled but didn’t spill.

“Oh my gosh, you almost gave me a heart attack,” she said, holding her chest with her free hand.

“I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

His eyes are very blue, she noticed.

“I’m fine. Uh, these are your drinks. I’m on my way.”

“Thank you, um, Becky,” he said, reading her name tag. “Also, sorry if I was rude earlier. It’s just, you know, the girls. They lost their mother in the—”

“The Event,” Becky finished softly.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I’m so very sorry. You were there, weren’t you?”

“What makes you think that?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Well, one of your daughters is wearing a USC hoodie, so at least you knew someone in that area. And…you don’t have tans, so you’re not tourists. And they only sell Lemon Coke in one place the world anymore. Well, they did.”

The man looked stunned. His eyes flicked to the table where his daughters were seated. He looked back at her with an intensity that made her falter.

“I…read a lot of Sherlock Holmes,” she said.

“Well, that’s amazing, Becky. Listen, if you could keep this between the two of us, I’d appreciate it. I’ll make your tip even bigger than I was planning,” the man said.

Becky grinned. “Now I know you’re from L.A.,” she said.

“Why?”

“You think you have to buy my loyalty,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Tom,” he said.

“Go to the bathroom, Tom. I’ll keep an eye on your daughters. For free.”

“Well, if you can’t trust a waitress with a gun on her hip, who can you trust?” Tom joked, but there was still pain in his eyes, like a wild thing that paced in a cage. He disappeared into the restroom.

Becky delivered the drinks to the girls, who didn’t even look up. She made her way around the diner, straightening chairs, wiping off tables, and chatting with other guests, but her eyes hardly left the two children. Neither of them said a word to each other.

She approached them carefully.

“Excuse me?” she said. “Hi, I’m Becky.”

The younger one glanced at her, and then went back to staring at the table.

“Um, we have Coke,” she said. “And lemons. I could make you a lemon Coke, if you want.”

The older girl looked at her coldly. “I’m sure you heard my father. He said no.”

“I’m sorry,” Becky said. “I was just trying to do something nice.” She turned away.

“Is that a real gun?” the younger one asked.

“Shut up, October!” her sister snapped.

Becky turned around. “Your name is October? That’s so cool,” she said.

“October Sunrise T—ouch!” the younger girl said. “Stop kicking!”

“Can’t you remember a simple instruction?” the older girl hissed. “What did Dad say about talking to strangers?”

“She’s not a stranger. She’s Becky. And she wants to bring me a lemon Coke. Because she’s nice. Not like you.” October stuck out her tongue.

“Your name is stupid,” the other girl retorted. “Everyone thinks so.”

“They do not! Don’t say that!” October wailed, tears forming in her eyes.

Becky bent down and lowered her voice. “I won’t tell anyone your names. I can keep a secret. I have a secret too.”

“You do?” October asked.

“Becky is not my real name.” Becky said.

“What is it?” the girl asked.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” Becky said, looking around.

“Yes.”

“It’s Ophelia Longbottom.”

October burst into giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hand. The older girl rolled her eyes, sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

Just then, Tom returned. “Well, I see you got one of them to laugh,” he said.

“I was just saying I could make them a lemon Coke, if it’s alright.” Becky offered.

“You know, it’s fine, you’ve already poured the juice,” Tom said. “I don’t want to make extra work for you.”

“It’s no problem,” Becky said. “When I’m in a new place, I like to eat my favorite things. It’s like taking a little piece of home with me wherever I go.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Really homespun,” the older girl said with venom. “Dad, do you think you could take us to a real restaurant and not some hash house where the help doesn’t know their place?”

“Phoenix!” Tom snapped. “Apologize this instant!”

“For what?”

“That’s disrespectful, and you know it. Apologize, right now.” Tom said.

“No! I’m sick of living like this! Why can’t we be normal again?” Phoenix said.

“Car. Now.” Tom pointed.

Phoenix pushed away from the table and stomped outside.

“I’m really sorry,” Tom said.

“It’s okay,” Becky replied. “I was 13 once too.”

“She’s just sad because our Mommy died,” October said.

“October,” Tom warned.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Becky said. “She must have been beautiful.”

“She was!” said October with surprise. “How did you know that?”

“Because you and your sister are so beautiful,” October said.

“Do you really think so?”

“I do,” said Becky.

“But my hair is so messy and dirty. We’ve been sleeping in the car. Daddy won’t—”

“Oc, we talked about this. We’d go to a restaurant if you didn’t talk to people. That was the deal,” her father said.

“Listen, if you don’t have enough money for a hotel, you can take a shower at my place,” Becky said. “I’d be glad to help.”

“That’s nice of you Becky, but we can’t. We’ve got to get going soon.” He glanced out the window, checking on Phoenix, who sat in the car, visibly fuming. “Can you watch her? I’ve got to go talk to my other daughter.”

“Sure, Tom.” she said.

“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

Becky took the juices away, grabbed two Cokes, a knife and a small, clear bin full of lemons. Big Mike watched her. “Don’t forget your side work,” he said.

“I won’t.”

“How’s our refugees?” he asked.

“They lost the mother. They don’t have anywhere to go,” she said.

“You still think they were there when it happened?”

“I know it. The father looks familiar. I’ve seen him on TV or something.”

“There’s a sentence we won’t hear for a while,” Big Mike said grimly. “Look, make nice if you want. Just be careful with them, okay?”

“Got it, Mike, thanks,” Becky said. She opened the Cokes, poured them over ice, and cut and squeezed several lemons with them. She put them on a tray, carried it with one hand, and picked up a cardboard box half-full of ketchup bottles and a narrow plastic funnel.

Becky delivered the drinks to the delight of October. Then she went around the diner, retrieved several bottles of ketchup, sat at the table next to October, opened a bottle and placed the funnel on top of it, then opened a second bottle and turned that upside down. October watched her with interest.

“What’cha doing?” October asked, her chin resting on her hands.

“I’m marrying the ketchup bottles,” she said.

“Why?” October asked. “Are they in love?”

Becky laughed. “Maybe they are,” she said.

“Are you married?” the girl asked.

“No.”

“Are you a furry?”

“What’s that?” Becky asked.

“It’s a fetish. I saw it on TV. It means you like people who dress up like animals.”

“Wow, that’s weird. No, I’ve just had regular boyfriends. Too many boyfriends. Boys, not men,” Becky said. “I was engaged once…it’s a long story.”

“What makes a man different from a boy?” October asked.

“A man takes charge. He leads. He’s tough, but he takes care of you. He respects you, but he doesn’t let you get away with being foolish,” Becky said.

“That sounds like my Daddy!” October said. “Except we sleep in the car now.”

“You know, I was serious when I said that you could come to my house. Just for one day. Sleep on a real bed, take a shower.”

October shook her head. “Daddy says we have to keep moving, or they will find us.”

“Who?”

“I’m not supposed to tell, Becky.” October said.

“It’s okay, October. We’re friends, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She took a deep breath. “Daddy made friends with the space people. The ones who attacked L.A. and turned everyone into salt. He’s the one they talked to. He tried to get everyone to listen to him.”

Becky sat back, covering her mouth. “That was your Dad?” He’s the—“

“The Prophet of Melrose Avenue,” Tom said behind her.

TO BE CONTINUED....