"I can't take that."
"Sure you can. You pick up the fork. I've seen it done."
"I'll pay for it, then."
"You'll insult Earl," she said, nodding toward the cook, who did not look up from the grill. "He's very sensitive about his roast."
Walt looked at the plate. His stomach, which had been quiet for an hour out of plain exhaustion, woke all at once and shouted. His hands were in his lap. He did not move them.
"I appreciate it," he said, "but we're all right. We don't need charity."
He heard how it sounded the moment it was out. He heard his own father in it, and his father's father, a long line of men in clean overalls standing in doorways saying *we're all right* while the wind came through the walls behind them.
The waitress did not seem offended. She stood with her order pad against her hip and looked down at him, and for the first time he made himself look up at her face, and found it watching him with an expression he could not name. It was not pity. He knew pity. He had spent eight weeks learning every shade of it. This was something steadier and more frightening, as if she were waiting for an answer to a question she had not asked out loud.
"It's not charity," she said. "It's supper. Eat while it's hot. The world will wait."
And she turned and went back behind the counter.
* * *
Walt sat very still.
The jukebox played. The truckers talked about a weigh station near Sidney. Josie, who had already eaten two potato chips and was reaching for the pickle, stopped with her hand in the air.
"Grandpa?"
He did not answer.
*Eat while it's hot. The world will wait.*