Lulu sets me straight within twenty minutes of my first shift.

“Listen,” she says, though she looks ahead toward the door and not even at me, like I haven’t earned her full attention. “Don’t get in my way and I won’t get in yours.” “Right,” I answer. “I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible, promise.” She sighs. We’re both behind the register, and it’s close to four in the morning, so there isn’t all too much action going on. An older couple sits in a booth in Lulu’s section, and she’s refilled their coffees at least half a dozen times. At some point, I hear them tell her that they’re good on coffee, that they’d rather be left alone for a while. She comes back behind the counter in a huff. “They come here, like, three times a week, and stay for half of my stupid shift.” She still looks to a wall in front of her. I can only tell she’s talking to me by process of elimination: I am standing two feet away from her, and, though it’s gruff, her voice is low. “They’re so engrossed in conversation,” I say. “That’s sweet. I wonder how long they’ve been together.” “I’m pretty sure she’s a mistress,” Lulu replies. Both the man and the woman look to be in their mid-eighties. I see a ring on his finger and not on her’s, though that’s not incriminating evidence. Because I truly have no response, I say nothing. We’re silent for a while. Five, maybe twenty long seconds. Maybe a whole minute. Lulu speaks again. “They don’t tip very well. Or, at all, actually.” “Oh, that’s the worst,” I sympathize. “The guy creeps me out,” she continues. “I don’t think he’s made eye contact with me once. It’s like he speaks to my shoulders.” “Or your…” “Yeah. Perv.” We both take to leaning on the counter. She’s zoned out somewhere, thousand-yard-stare style, and I occasionally glance over her section as well as my own. On my side, there’s a woman in this smart outfit, this pale gray pantsuit, tending slowly to her cinnamon toast. She’s rifling through some newspapers with a thick red sharpie. At my last diner, I grew accustomed to professional early-risers, lawyers or brokers or newscasters, so I know to leave her alone to her work. But after a few minutes, Red Sharpie flags me down by quietly staring at me, waiting for me to meet her gaze. Her nod is slight and I can’t explicitly tell if she’s asking for the check. I walk over to her. “Can I have another?” she says, pointing to her plate. “Another order of cinnamon toast, got it. Anything else?” “Can I actually get two?” “Two orders of the toast, got it.” “Cinnamon toast, right?” she urges. “Yes,” I clarify. “Two orders of cinnamon toast.” She looks relieved. “Thank you.” I smile and turn to put in the order when I catch her beginning to speak again. I turn back around. “I’m just stress-eating,” she says. “Believe me, I do that all the time.” “I’ve got this case I’m working on and I’m off caffeine so I’m making do with a sugar high.” She takes a sip of her orange juice and her iced water, both glasses hardly touched. “Oh, are you a lawyer?” I ask. “I work for an adoption agency and they’re pushing me to approve this couple, but I’m not so sure they’re a good fit…” her voice drags off and she rummages through her paper, some local one I’ve never heard of. “Sorry,” she says, looking up, abrupt. “I’m just complaining. You don’t need to hear this.” “No, no,” I assure her. “I’m always interested in customers’ stories. It’s a reason I love working in a diner; you collect all of these anecdotes from people whose lives you can’t even begin to comprehend.” She carefully considers my words and nods. “So, I’ll just take the cinnamon toast.” “Of course.” This time, I make it to the kitchen, put in the order, and come back to meet Lulu at the counter. “Oh, I’m so desensitized to that by now. I don’t take it personally. And she seems pretty stressed out,” I explain. Having nothing better to do, I wipe the counter with a rag. “Sheesh,” she says. “That was rough. I hate people who yammer on to you about their business and brush you off the minute you respond.” Lulu, almost aggressively, takes the rag from me and starts cleaning her side of the counter. “Still, it’s like, we’re human beings. I feel like crap every time I walk into the place and I’d get fired if I was rude—“ “—More coffee?” shouts the older man. “—Wait a damn second!” Lulu yells back. She turns back to me. “What I’m saying is, I think it’s sad that we’re expected to just get used to subpar treatment. I used to try so hard to push back on that.” She says her last bit almost wistfully. It sounds odd coming from a girl who can’t be older than twenty-four, with so much resignation behind it. “I don’t view it as a concession,” I tell her. “I just, sort of, aligned my beliefs with what this job requires. I try to be kind to everyone. I give them the gifts of patience and understanding. In that way, I’m the same inside and out of the diner.” She sighs again, deeply, like her whole body is deflated, and rests her head on the counter. “No offense,” she begins. “But I think that’s kind of pathetic.” Before I can articulate a response, she collects herself and refills the couple’s cups. She goes into the kitchen afterward, toward the back door. I don’t see her for the rest of the night, so I have to scrounge up a bill for the couple when they want to leave. They leave no tip. Red Sharpie, at least, gives me a couple of dollars, so I put half in Lulu’s jar. I’m early for my shift some day the following week, and I go to hang my jacket in the backroom’s coat rack when I see something peculiar — a corner of navy blue nylon sticking out through the supply closet, caught in the door hinge. It looks like it could be someone’s puffer jacket that somehow fell off its hanger and got swept into the closet, and so I open the door. Framed by the gallons of cleaners and mops, I see a sleeping bag rolled out along the floor. “Hey, Rick?” I call out to the guy who runs the place, who I’ve seen only two or three times. “Yeah?” he calls back from the register. “Can you check this out?” “Give me a minute.” I’m still staring into the closet, confused and concerned and curious, when Lulu comes in through the back and gasps. I jump instinctually, thinking she’s spotted another mouse, but instead, she runs to me and I take a few steps back. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t lock it again?” she says, kicking the bag further up against the jugs of bleach and closing the closet. “That’s yours?” I ask. “Well, it’s not Rick’s,” she mutters. She pulls a lanyard out of her pocket and frantically flips through keys and charms. I watch her do this until she isolates one and jiggles the door shut. Rick walks into the room and takes a second to locate me. He seems surprised to see Lulu, since he’s usually gone by the time she and I are on the clock. Lulu leans against the closet, bumping into the coat rack, and I steady it before it topples over. “What’s up?” he asks. “Nevermind,” I say. “Are you sure?” he says, with a tinge of impatience in his voice. “Yeah, thought I found a scarf that a customer left somehow. Turns out, it’s just Lulu’s,” I say because it’s the first thing that comes to my head. Rick grunts and heads back to the register. I turn to Lulu. “What’s the deal with the bag? Are you sleeping here?” I ask, lowering my voice. She grabs my forearm and leads me into the women’s bathroom. I protest for a moment, but I can sense her urgency and acquiesce rather quickly. We’re standing around a puddle of toilet water and I look to the ground every couple of seconds to make sure I don’t ruin my white sneakers. “Sorry,” she begins, throwing paper towels onto the puddle. “I only sleep here sometimes. When I’m too tired at the end of my shift and it’d be dangerous for me to take the bus home.” She looks up at me, the first time I think she’s ever really looked at me, with these pleading eyes. “Rick’s never here and this place has better security than my apartment complex, okay?” I don’t know how to respond. “Please.” She grabs my hand. “Don’t mention this to him, yeah?” “Lulu, it’s none of my business. Of course, I won’t say a thing.” She exhales, releasing my hand to pat me on the shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you. God, thank you.” “All right, don’t cry over it,” I say, gently removing her hand. I glance at my watch. “C’mon. We’re on.” We walk out and Rick is already gone, leaving the register unmanned. We head on over to the counter and take our usual idle positions. We deal with a slower morning crowd than usual because of the sudden hail, so we stand around in silence for close to forty minutes. “I’m sorry for calling you pathetic,” she says suddenly. “Huh?” I say, not sure which instance she’s referring to. “That time last week. When you said that bit about giving customers the benefit of the doubt, even when they’re terrible to you.” “Oh. That.” I wave her away. “You had every right to feel that. We tend to deal with a lot of crap.” She opens her mouth as if she’s ready to protest me, but she stops herself. “I’m just so tired,” she says instead. “Me too, Lulu,” I say. “The least we can do is make it easier for each other.” After a long moment, she takes two clear plastic cups and fills them both with the iced tea in the dispenser behind us. She hands one to me and we tap our drinks together. “To making things easier for each other,” she proclaims. “To making things easier for each other,” I repeat. We sip our drinks in silence until Lulu puts her head down. I follow suit. The diner is empty and the weather intensifies. With our heads resting on the counter, we stare through the glass walls, watching the shards of ice crash into the concrete as the sky begins to lighten.

“Right,” I answer. “I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible, promise.” She sighs. We’re both behind the register, and it’s close to four in the morning, so there isn’t all too much action going on. An older couple sits in a booth in Lulu’s section, and she’s refilled their coffees at least half a dozen times. At some point, I hear them tell her that they’re good on coffee, that they’d rather be left alone for a while. She comes back behind the counter in a huff. “They come here, like, three times a week, and stay for half of my stupid shift.” She still looks to a wall in front of her. I can only tell she’s talking to me by process of elimination: I am standing two feet away from her, and, though it’s gruff, her voice is low. “They’re so engrossed in conversation,” I say. “That’s sweet. I wonder how long they’ve been together.” “I’m pretty sure she’s a mistress,” Lulu replies. Both the man and the woman look to be in their mid-eighties. I see a ring on his finger and not on her’s, though that’s not incriminating evidence. Because I truly have no response, I say nothing. We’re silent for a while. Five, maybe twenty long seconds. Maybe a whole minute. Lulu speaks again. “They don’t tip very well. Or, at all, actually.” “Oh, that’s the worst,” I sympathize. “The guy creeps me out,” she continues. “I don’t think he’s made eye contact with me once. It’s like he speaks to my shoulders.” “Or your…” “Yeah. Perv.” We both take to leaning on the counter. She’s zoned out somewhere, thousand-yard-stare style, and I occasionally glance over her section as well as my own. On my side, there’s a woman in this smart outfit, this pale gray pantsuit, tending slowly to her cinnamon toast. She’s rifling through some newspapers with a thick red sharpie. At my last diner, I grew accustomed to professional early-risers, lawyers or brokers or newscasters, so I know to leave her alone to her work. But after a few minutes, Red Sharpie flags me down by quietly staring at me, waiting for me to meet her gaze. Her nod is slight and I can’t explicitly tell if she’s asking for the check. I walk over to her. “Can I have another?” she says, pointing to her plate. “Another order of cinnamon toast, got it. Anything else?” “Can I actually get two?” “Two orders of the toast, got it.” “Cinnamon toast, right?” she urges. “Yes,” I clarify. “Two orders of cinnamon toast.” She looks relieved. “Thank you.” I smile and turn to put in the order when I catch her beginning to speak again. I turn back around. “I’m just stress-eating,” she says. “Believe me, I do that all the time.” “I’ve got this case I’m working on and I’m off caffeine so I’m making do with a sugar high.” She takes a sip of her orange juice and her iced water, both glasses hardly touched. “Oh, are you a lawyer?” I ask. “I work for an adoption agency and they’re pushing me to approve this couple, but I’m not so sure they’re a good fit…” her voice drags off and she rummages through her paper, some local one I’ve never heard of. “Sorry,” she says, looking up, abrupt. “I’m just complaining. You don’t need to hear this.” “No, no,” I assure her. “I’m always interested in customers’ stories. It’s a reason I love working in a diner; you collect all of these anecdotes from people whose lives you can’t even begin to comprehend.” She carefully considers my words and nods. “So, I’ll just take the cinnamon toast.” “Of course.” This time, I make it to the kitchen, put in the order, and come back to meet Lulu at the counter. “Oh, I’m so desensitized to that by now. I don’t take it personally. And she seems pretty stressed out,” I explain. Having nothing better to do, I wipe the counter with a rag. “Sheesh,” she says. “That was rough. I hate people who yammer on to you about their business and brush you off the minute you respond.” Lulu, almost aggressively, takes the rag from me and starts cleaning her side of the counter. “Still, it’s like, we’re human beings. I feel like crap every time I walk into the place and I’d get fired if I was rude—“ “—More coffee?” shouts the older man. “—Wait a damn second!” Lulu yells back. She turns back to me. “What I’m saying is, I think it’s sad that we’re expected to just get used to subpar treatment. I used to try so hard to push back on that.” She says her last bit almost wistfully. It sounds odd coming from a girl who can’t be older than twenty-four, with so much resignation behind it. “I don’t view it as a concession,” I tell her. “I just, sort of, aligned my beliefs with what this job requires. I try to be kind to everyone. I give them the gifts of patience and understanding. In that way, I’m the same inside and out of the diner.” She sighs again, deeply, like her whole body is deflated, and rests her head on the counter. “No offense,” she begins. “But I think that’s kind of pathetic.” Before I can articulate a response, she collects herself and refills the couple’s cups. She goes into the kitchen afterward, toward the back door. I don’t see her for the rest of the night, so I have to scrounge up a bill for the couple when they want to leave. They leave no tip. Red Sharpie, at least, gives me a couple of dollars, so I put half in Lulu’s jar. I’m early for my shift some day the following week, and I go to hang my jacket in the backroom’s coat rack when I see something peculiar — a corner of navy blue nylon sticking out through the supply closet, caught in the door hinge. It looks like it could be someone’s puffer jacket that somehow fell off its hanger and got swept into the closet, and so I open the door. Framed by the gallons of cleaners and mops, I see a sleeping bag rolled out along the floor. “Hey, Rick?” I call out to the guy who runs the place, who I’ve seen only two or three times. “Yeah?” he calls back from the register. “Can you check this out?” “Give me a minute.” I’m still staring into the closet, confused and concerned and curious, when Lulu comes in through the back and gasps. I jump instinctually, thinking she’s spotted another mouse, but instead, she runs to me and I take a few steps back. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t lock it again?” she says, kicking the bag further up against the jugs of bleach and closing the closet. “That’s yours?” I ask. “Well, it’s not Rick’s,” she mutters. She pulls a lanyard out of her pocket and frantically flips through keys and charms. I watch her do this until she isolates one and jiggles the door shut. Rick walks into the room and takes a second to locate me. He seems surprised to see Lulu, since he’s usually gone by the time she and I are on the clock. Lulu leans against the closet, bumping into the coat rack, and I steady it before it topples over. “What’s up?” he asks. “Nevermind,” I say. “Are you sure?” he says, with a tinge of impatience in his voice. “Yeah, thought I found a scarf that a customer left somehow. Turns out, it’s just Lulu’s,” I say because it’s the first thing that comes to my head. Rick grunts and heads back to the register. I turn to Lulu. “What’s the deal with the bag? Are you sleeping here?” I ask, lowering my voice. She grabs my forearm and leads me into the women’s bathroom. I protest for a moment, but I can sense her urgency and acquiesce rather quickly. We’re standing around a puddle of toilet water and I look to the ground every couple of seconds to make sure I don’t ruin my white sneakers. “Sorry,” she begins, throwing paper towels onto the puddle. “I only sleep here sometimes. When I’m too tired at the end of my shift and it’d be dangerous for me to take the bus home.” She looks up at me, the first time I think she’s ever really looked at me, with these pleading eyes. “Rick’s never here and this place has better security than my apartment complex, okay?” I don’t know how to respond. “Please.” She grabs my hand. “Don’t mention this to him, yeah?” “Lulu, it’s none of my business. Of course, I won’t say a thing.” She exhales, releasing my hand to pat me on the shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you. God, thank you.” “All right, don’t cry over it,” I say, gently removing her hand. I glance at my watch. “C’mon. We’re on.” We walk out and Rick is already gone, leaving the register unmanned. We head on over to the counter and take our usual idle positions. We deal with a slower morning crowd than usual because of the sudden hail, so we stand around in silence for close to forty minutes. “I’m sorry for calling you pathetic,” she says suddenly. “Huh?” I say, not sure which instance she’s referring to. “That time last week. When you said that bit about giving customers the benefit of the doubt, even when they’re terrible to you.” “Oh. That.” I wave her away. “You had every right to feel that. We tend to deal with a lot of crap.” She opens her mouth as if she’s ready to protest me, but she stops herself. “I’m just so tired,” she says instead. “Me too, Lulu,” I say. “The least we can do is make it easier for each other.” After a long moment, she takes two clear plastic cups and fills them both with the iced tea in the dispenser behind us. She hands one to me and we tap our drinks together. “To making things easier for each other,” she proclaims. “To making things easier for each other,” I repeat. We sip our drinks in silence until Lulu puts her head down. I follow suit. The diner is empty and the weather intensifies. With our heads resting on the counter, we stare through the glass walls, watching the shards of ice crash into the concrete as the sky begins to lighten.

“Right,” I answer. “I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible, promise.” She sighs.

We’re both behind the register, and it’s close to four in the morning, so there isn’t all too much action going on. An older couple sits in a booth in Lulu’s section, and she’s refilled their coffees at least half a dozen times. At some point, I hear them tell her that they’re good on coffee, that they’d rather be left alone for a while. She comes back behind the counter in a huff.

“They come here, like, three times a week, and stay for half of my stupid shift.” She still looks to a wall in front of her. I can only tell she’s talking to me by process of elimination: I am standing two feet away from her, and, though it’s gruff, her voice is low.

“They’re so engrossed in conversation,” I say. “That’s sweet. I wonder how long they’ve been together.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s a mistress,” Lulu replies. Both the man and the woman look to be in their mid-eighties. I see a ring on his finger and not on her’s, though that’s not incriminating evidence. Because I truly have no response, I say nothing.

We’re silent for a while. Five, maybe twenty long seconds. Maybe a whole minute. Lulu speaks again. “They don’t tip very well. Or, at all, actually.”

“Oh, that’s the worst,” I sympathize.

“The guy creeps me out,” she continues. “I don’t think he’s made eye contact with me once. It’s like he speaks to my shoulders.”

“Or your…”

“Yeah. Perv.”

We both take to leaning on the counter. She’s zoned out somewhere, thousand-yard-stare style, and I occasionally glance over her section as well as my own. On my side, there’s a woman in this smart outfit, this pale gray pantsuit, tending slowly to her cinnamon toast. She’s rifling through some newspapers with a thick red sharpie. At my last diner, I grew accustomed to professional early-risers, lawyers or brokers or newscasters, so I know to leave her alone to her work.

But after a few minutes, Red Sharpie flags me down by quietly staring at me, waiting for me to meet her gaze. Her nod is slight and I can’t explicitly tell if she’s asking for the check. I walk over to her.

“Can I have another?” she says, pointing to her plate.

“Another order of cinnamon toast, got it. Anything else?”

“Can I actually get two?”

“Two orders of the toast, got it.”

“Cinnamon toast, right?” she urges.

“Yes,” I clarify. “Two orders of cinnamon toast.”

She looks relieved. “Thank you.”

I smile and turn to put in the order when I catch her beginning to speak again. I turn back around.

“I’m just stress-eating,” she says.

“Believe me, I do that all the time.”

“I’ve got this case I’m working on and I’m off caffeine so I’m making do with a sugar high.” She takes a sip of her orange juice and her iced water, both glasses hardly touched.

“Oh, are you a lawyer?” I ask.

“I work for an adoption agency and they’re pushing me to approve this couple, but I’m not so sure they’re a good fit…” her voice drags off and she rummages through her paper, some local one I’ve never heard of. “Sorry,” she says, looking up, abrupt. “I’m just complaining. You don’t need to hear this.”

“No, no,” I assure her. “I’m always interested in customers’ stories. It’s a reason I love working in a diner; you collect all of these anecdotes from people whose lives you can’t even begin to comprehend.”

She carefully considers my words and nods. “So, I’ll just take the cinnamon toast.”

“Of course.” This time, I make it to the kitchen, put in the order, and come back to meet Lulu at the counter.

“Oh, I’m so desensitized to that by now. I don’t take it personally. And she seems pretty stressed out,” I explain.

Having nothing better to do, I wipe the counter with a rag.

“Sheesh,” she says. “That was rough. I hate people who yammer on to you about their business and brush you off the minute you respond.”

Lulu, almost aggressively, takes the rag from me and starts cleaning her side of the counter.

“Still, it’s like, we’re human beings. I feel like crap every time I walk into the place and I’d get fired if I was rude—“

“—More coffee?” shouts the older man.

“—Wait a damn second!” Lulu yells back.

She turns back to me. “What I’m saying is, I think it’s sad that we’re expected to just get used to subpar treatment. I used to try so hard to push back on that.” She says her last bit almost wistfully. It sounds odd coming from a girl who can’t be older than twenty-four, with so much resignation behind it.

“I don’t view it as a concession,” I tell her. “I just, sort of, aligned my beliefs with what this job requires. I try to be kind to everyone. I give them the gifts of patience and understanding. In that way, I’m the same inside and out of the diner.”

She sighs again, deeply, like her whole body is deflated, and rests her head on the counter.

“No offense,” she begins. “But I think that’s kind of pathetic.”

Before I can articulate a response, she collects herself and refills the couple’s cups. She goes into the kitchen afterward, toward the back door.

I don’t see her for the rest of the night, so I have to scrounge up a bill for the couple when they want to leave. They leave no tip. Red Sharpie, at least, gives me a couple of dollars, so I put half in Lulu’s jar.

I’m early for my shift some day the following week, and I go to hang my jacket in the backroom’s coat rack when I see something peculiar — a corner of navy blue nylon sticking out through the supply closet, caught in the door hinge. It looks like it could be someone’s puffer jacket that somehow fell off its hanger and got swept into the closet, and so I open the door. Framed by the gallons of cleaners and mops, I see a sleeping bag rolled out along the floor. “Hey, Rick?” I call out to the guy who runs the place, who I’ve seen only two or three times.

“Yeah?” he calls back from the register.

“Can you check this out?”

“Give me a minute.”

I’m still staring into the closet, confused and concerned and curious, when Lulu comes in through the back and gasps. I jump instinctually, thinking she’s spotted another mouse, but instead, she runs to me and I take a few steps back.

“Are you kidding me? I didn’t lock it again?” she says, kicking the bag further up against the jugs of bleach and closing the closet.

“That’s yours?” I ask.

“Well, it’s not Rick’s,” she mutters. She pulls a lanyard out of her pocket and frantically flips through keys and charms. I watch her do this until she isolates one and jiggles the door shut.

Rick walks into the room and takes a second to locate me. He seems surprised to see Lulu, since he’s usually gone by the time she and I are on the clock.

Lulu leans against the closet, bumping into the coat rack, and I steady it before it topples over.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Nevermind,” I say.

“Are you sure?” he says, with a tinge of impatience in his voice.

“Yeah, thought I found a scarf that a customer left somehow. Turns out, it’s just Lulu’s,” I say because it’s the first thing that comes to my head.

Rick grunts and heads back to the register. I turn to Lulu.

“What’s the deal with the bag? Are you sleeping here?” I ask, lowering my voice.

She grabs my forearm and leads me into the women’s bathroom. I protest for a moment, but I can sense her urgency and acquiesce rather quickly. We’re standing around a puddle of toilet water and I look to the ground every couple of seconds to make sure I don’t ruin my white sneakers.

“Sorry,” she begins, throwing paper towels onto the puddle. “I only sleep here sometimes. When I’m too tired at the end of my shift and it’d be dangerous for me to take the bus home.” She looks up at me, the first time I think she’s ever really looked at me, with these pleading eyes. “Rick’s never here and this place has better security than my apartment complex, okay?”

I don’t know how to respond.

“Please.” She grabs my hand. “Don’t mention this to him, yeah?”

“Lulu, it’s none of my business. Of course, I won’t say a thing.” She exhales, releasing my hand to pat me on the shoulder.

“Thank you. Thank you. God, thank you.”

“All right, don’t cry over it,” I say, gently removing her hand. I glance at my watch. “C’mon. We’re on.”

We walk out and Rick is already gone, leaving the register unmanned. We head on over to the counter and take our usual idle positions. We deal with a slower morning crowd than usual because of the sudden hail, so we stand around in silence for close to forty minutes.

“I’m sorry for calling you pathetic,” she says suddenly.

“Huh?” I say, not sure which instance she’s referring to.

“That time last week. When you said that bit about giving customers the benefit of the doubt, even when they’re terrible to you.”

“Oh. That.” I wave her away. “You had every right to feel that. We tend to deal with a lot of crap.”

She opens her mouth as if she’s ready to protest me, but she stops herself. “I’m just so tired,” she says instead.

“Me too, Lulu,” I say. “The least we can do is make it easier for each other.”

After a long moment, she takes two clear plastic cups and fills them both with the iced tea in the dispenser behind us. She hands one to me and we tap our drinks together.

“To making things easier for each other,” she proclaims.

“To making things easier for each other,” I repeat.

We sip our drinks in silence until Lulu puts her head down. I follow suit. The diner is empty and the weather intensifies.

With our heads resting on the counter, we stare through the glass walls, watching the shards of ice crash into the concrete as the sky begins to lighten.