“Night Booth”
Every night at 9:17 p.m., the bell above Rosie’s Diner rang.
Not 9:15. Not 9:20. Always 9:17.
A pair of small boots hit the tile floor. A boy—no older than ten—crossed the room and slid into the cracked booth by the window. He carried a backpack zipped tight. The zipper never moved. He never ordered anything but water. And before the coffee finished hissing, he fell asleep, head resting on folded arms.
Most people didn’t notice. Truckers assumed he was waiting for someone. The waitress, Lena, assumed he liked the warmth.
But Tom Reyes noticed.
Tom had been sitting in the same corner for months, nursing his coffee, watching, counting exits. Former Marine. Former foster kid. He recognized the posture immediately: curled inward, fists tight, shoulders braced, eyes darting at shadows even while asleep. Kids didn’t sleep like that unless they were running from something—or someone.
The first time he saw the boy, Tom almost called the police. Then he thought better of it. Some things weren’t solved with authority. Some things required patience.
The boy’s name was Evan Miller.
Every night, same time. Same booth. Same posture. Rain or shine, weekday or weekend, Evan appeared, zipped backpack clinging to him like armor.
Tom watched silently. The other diners thought the boy was a runaway or a latchkey child. They never asked. Lena never pressed. Evan’s silence demanded respect.
Night after night, Tom took small steps. He slid into the booth across from Evan one evening, keeping a safe distance.
“Long day?” he asked softly.
Evan blinked. “Every day.”
And then, just like that, he went back to sleeping.
One stormy night, the diner lost power. Lights flickered out. Coffee machines hissed, freezers buzzed, and the humming neon sign over the door went dark.
Evan bolted upright. His small body trembled. He scanned the diner, counting exits, checking shadows. Tom watched him, fascinated and concerned.
When the lights returned, Evan slowly slumped back into himself, shoulders tight, fists clenched.
“You okay?” Tom asked.
Evan shook his head. “I… I just—” His voice cracked. “Don’t like nights.”
Tom nodded. He understood. He had been there once. Nights were for hiding. Nights were for fearing things no one else could see.
Over the next week, Tom made small moves. He didn’t interrogate. He didn’t lecture. He simply existed nearby, quietly drinking coffee, sometimes saying a word or two about mundane things: weather, school, motorcycles.
Evan began to notice. Sometimes, he looked up from his nap. Sometimes, he spoke a word. Sometimes, he just stared at the window while cars passed outside.
One night, Evan whispered: “He’ll be home early.”
Tom’s heart skipped. “Who?”
Evan didn’t answer. He just watched the window.
Tom decided he wouldn’t leave the diner that night. Not until he knew Evan would be safe.
At 11:03 p.m., headlights appeared across the street. They didn’t park. They didn’t move closer. Just a car idling in the shadows. Evan’s eyes widened. He froze completely, every muscle rigid.
Tom noticed the subtle twitch in Evan’s fingers, the way his gaze locked on the dark sedan.
“Someone waiting?” Tom asked gently.
Evan didn’t speak.
The car left. Evan exhaled sharply. But the tension didn’t leave his body. Tom realized then that the boy had been watching the street for someone, every night, like a hawk waiting for a predator.
Over the next few nights, small details emerged. Evan had a bruise on his forearm that never seemed fresh—but never fully faded. His backpack always zipped tight, as though holding something precious—or fragile.
Tom tried to earn Evan’s trust. One night, he slid a pack of chocolate milk across the table.
“You don’t have to,” Evan said softly.
“I do,” Tom replied.
Evan hesitated. Then took a small sip. That night, he stayed awake longer, talking quietly. Not about home. Not about fear. Just small things.
A week later, Tom came early, as usual, to the diner. The bell rang. Evan stepped inside. But this time, he looked different.
His eyes scanned the diner. His hands fidgeted nervously. His backpack seemed heavier.
“Hey,” Tom said. “You alright?”
Evan didn’t answer. He slid into the booth, zipped his backpack tighter than ever. Tom noticed a small envelope sticking out from the zipper. It had a name on it: Tom Reyes.
Tom’s pulse quickened.
Evan finally spoke, voice trembling. “He… he knows you’re here.”
Tom’s mind raced. “Who knows me?”
Evan swallowed. “The man… he’s been watching me. Watching us. You think I’m safe here… but he’s… he’s everywhere.”
That night, Tom followed Evan’s usual pattern: watch silently, stay close, wait for the threat to appear.
At 11:17 p.m., the diner bell rang. The door creaked open. Not the usual sound. Too heavy. Too deliberate.
Evan froze. Tom’s hand instinctively went to the knife strapped under his jacket.
The man stepped inside. Same build, same dark jacket Evan had been describing. His face half-hidden. A smirk played at his lips. He scanned the diner. Then his gaze locked on Tom.
“Tom Reyes,” he said. His voice low, dangerous.
Tom’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t about Evan alone anymore.
Evan’s small voice trembled: “He… he knows you too.”
Tom realized the plot was far bigger than he imagined. Someone had been tracking both of them, feeding the boy’s fear, orchestrating his nightly routine. Someone who knew exactly how far Tom would go to protect a child.
As the man advanced, Tom noticed something: he wasn’t looking for Evan. He was looking for something Evan was carrying.
The envelope. The small letters. The documents. Something secret. Something valuable enough to put a ten-year-old in danger.
Tom’s mind raced. He had to act. But he couldn’t risk Evan. Not yet.
Suddenly, the diner lights flickered again. In the brief darkness, Tom sensed a second presence. Another man—inside the diner, standing quietly behind the counter, watching.
A whisper reached Tom’s ears: “It’s time. Give it to him.”
Tom’s heart sank. Someone inside the diner was betraying them. A secret player. Maybe someone who had been observing Evan all along, making sure no one interfered.
Tom tightened his grip on his knife. Evan’s backpack zipped tight. The man in the jacket took a deliberate step forward.
Then, before anyone could move, the diner door slammed shut behind them with a deafening bang. Lights flickered violently, then went out completely.
Evan’s small voice cried: “He’s here!”
Tom whispered: “Hold on, kid. Don’t move.”
Outside, the sound of a car engine started. Slow. Heavy. And a voice—the same one that had whispered Tom’s name weeks ago—laughed softly.
The diner, once a sanctuary, was no longer safe.
