It was 1988.

I had a four-year-old daughter named Carrie, forty-one dollars in my wallet, and a Pontiac that couldn’t reverse.

I’d recently left my first husband.

I needed work.

I needed somewhere safe for my daughter.

And I needed someone willing to give me a chance.

There was a handwritten sign in the diner’s window.

*Help wanted. Ask for Gus.*

So I went inside.

Gus Petros came out from behind the grill.

He was a large, bald man with strong forearms and a white T-shirt.

He looked me over.

“You ever worked as a waitress?”

“No, sir.”

“You good with customers?”

“I can learn.”

He glanced through the window at my old Pontiac.

“You got a child?”

I nodded.

“A little girl. She’s four.”

“Where is she?”

I swallowed.

“In the car.”

Gus walked outside.

He opened the back door and crouched beside Carrie.

She was clutching her stuffed rabbit.