The diner is half-full when I walk in. A couple of construction guys munch burgers at the counter and an older woman with a newspaper nurses a cup of coffee in the booth by the window. I pick a booth with a clear sightline to the door, sit down, and order a black coffee.
As I wait, I check my phone. No messages from Ochoa. I pull up our Signal thread and scroll through it. The last message is mine: Hey, just confirming we’re still on for Tuesday at five. Same spot. Let me know.
That was three days ago. I wonder if he was even alive when it was sent, or if the Lazarev meat grinder had already chewed him up and spit him out.
I sip my coffee and wait. Five P.M. comes and goes. Six does the same. By seven, I admit the obvious: He’s not coming.
I knew that before I sat down, if I’m honest.
