They settled into the window booth, the one with the view of the beach. The grandkids immediately started coloring on the paper placemats. Normal. This was normal.
Meg took their order herself — four grilled cheeses, two with tomato, one plain for the picky five-year-old, and Mrs. Patterson’s usual with extra pickles on the side.
“Coming right up.”
She moved to the grill, grateful to have something to do. The cheese was pre-sliced, the bread ready, the butter soft. She’d done this a hundred times now. Maybe a thousand. The Shack had that effect — itabsorbed you into its rhythms until you couldn’t remember not knowing how to flip a sandwich at exactly the right moment.
The sizzle was satisfying. The smell of butter and bread filled the kitchen. This, at least, was right.
She plated the sandwiches, added the pickle spears, carried everything to the booth.
“Here we go. Four grilled cheeses, extra pickles.”
Mrs. Patterson smiled. “Thank you, dear. How’s your grandmother?”
“Painting. She’s been in her studio every day this week.”
“Good for her. She deserves the rest.” Mrs. Patterson cut her sandwich in half, the cheese stretching in that perfect way. She took a bite.
And paused.
Meg watched her face do something complicated — not quite a frown, not quite confusion. Just... something.
“Everything okay?”
“Oh, yes. Fine.” Mrs. Patterson set down the sandwich. “It’s just...”
“Just?”
“Nothing. It’s good.” She took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s good.”
But she didn’t finish the sentence she’d started. And she only ate half the sandwich before asking for a box.
Meg tried not to read into it. People didn’t always finish their food. It didn’t mean anything.
Bernie caught her eye from his corner booth. He raised an eyebrow.
She brought him his coffee refill, even though he hadn’t asked.
“Slow day,” she said.
“Slow week.” Bernie wrapped his hands around the mug. “You notice Patterson?”
“I noticed she didn’t finish.”
“Third regular this week who didn’t finish.” Bernie sipped his coffee. “Used to be people would lick the plate. Now they’re asking for boxes.”
“Maybe people are eating less.”
“Maybe.” Bernie didn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe something’s different.”
“Different how?”
He shrugged, his old shoulders rising and falling. “Can’t put my finger on it. But I’ve been eating these grilled cheeses for fifty years. I know when something’s off.”
“Is it off?”
Bernie looked at her for a long moment. Then he smiled — the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
