Chapter 41 Coffee, Grease And Ghosts
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- The diner’s bell jingled like a broken promise every time the door swung open. I stood behind the counter of Mabel’s Griddle, my fingers sticky with syrup and my lungs thick with the smell of burnt bacon.
- The place was a time capsule—cracked vinyl booths, a neon sign buzzing like a trapped wasp, and a coffee pot that had probably brewed its first cup during the Reagan administration.