Page 17 of Shattered Echoes

When his car eventually kicked in, and he was already in motion, I sped up and caught up to drive by his side. I wound down the window and returned the gesture before speeding up and driving away. There's nothing on this road to stir up any rage in me, no driver to piss me off or disobey the traffic lights. It's not so bad after all.

I slow down and take a turn down a street, then park my truck by the sidewalk before Dottie's Diner. Dottie’s has been opening since I was a teenager, and it's a diner known for diverse reasons; its good delicacies and Dottie's gossip. The former has always outweighed the latter, and that's why the place still stands today.

I kill the engine and look out toward the diner. Through the floor to ceiling glass windows, I can see the people seated inside and those lined up by the counter. Memories of me going to have lunch here with my buddies flash in my head for a moment.

Unstrapping my seatbelt, I step out of the truck and head to the entrance, push the door back, and then walk inside. Suddenly, I'm hit with a wave of déjà vu. The air still smells the same — the sweet aroma of a mix of several dishes they offer — although the interior decor is a lot better now.

Waitresses in aprons zip between tables, jotting down orders and refilling coffee cups with practiced ease, adding to the lively atmosphere of the diner, just as I remember it. The chatter of customers and their occasional laughs blend with the clinking of silverware and the hiss of the griddle. The diner is still cozy with red vinyl booths lining one side and a row of stool stands in front of the counter.

Roaming my eyes for an empty seat, I notice the booths are occupied by patrons, regulars maybe; some are engrossed in conversations with smiley faces over plates piled with pancakes, others sit alone.

Behind the counter up ahead, I see her, Dottie, engaged in a conversation with some of her customers. More like gossiping with them.

She's older now compared to ten years ago when I was still a teenager, and she was way younger with two kids around the ages of two and three. Back then, she was such a huge gossip, and the whole town knew her for that.

Dottie still can't seem to put a lock on her mouth as she's engrossed in whatever tale she's telling those customers of hers.

“I'm telling you, Sheriff Reeds still does not know who it is.” She demonstrates dramatically.

Classic Dottie.

Who might she be referring to?

I wonder what she's talking about, just out of curiosity, because the look on her audience’s faces is palpable at how fascinated they are by her story.

“Can I tell you what I believe?” she leans closer with a hushed tone. The question is clearly rhetorical because she tells them, anyway. I listen attentively.

“I think the Sheriff is pissed off because he hasn't been able to apprehend who it is. I think he has a beef with them, you know…” She laughs, and they do too.

“Whoever they are, they're good at hiding and covering their tracks,” one of the female customers chime in.

“Yeah…and the art is superb as well,” another says.

“Careful, Sheriff Reed mustn't hear you taking their side,” Dottie jokes, and they laugh again.

I've heard people talking about the mysterious street artist during my morning runs. It's like there's an outlaw on the loose who's going around painting on abandoned buildings, abandoned cars, and basically anything with a surface that can be drawn upon.

From the whispers I've heard so far, it seems like the only person with a problem with this vigilante artist is Sheriff Reed.

Why am I not surprised? The rest of the town finds the artist's work impressive, and a vast majority of them joke about the Sheriff hasn't caught them yet.

I've known Reed since I was a teenager, and I know how much he loves to uphold the law and maintain order. He's a man who is very passionate about keeping the town safe. I've always admired that part of him, the other part…not so much.

Suddenly, I now understand why most of the people I've overheard talking about the mysterious street artist and the Sheriff love the idea of his frustrations.

I scoff, subtly shaking my head, and just as I'm about to take a step forward, a teenage girl comes over to me with a smile.

“Hi,” she greets warmly, with a pen and a notepad in her hands.

I look at her, and we lock eyes. She seems really familiar, and I can tell by the way she is squinting at me she thinks I look familiar as well.

Then it hits me. The resemblance is striking. She's Dottie's daughter. She's changed a lot since the last time I saw her — of course, she's a teenager now, and she's obviously working in her mom's diner.

Her lips look like she is going to talk as she wears a look on her face that says she finally remembers why I look so familiar. But before she can find her words, her mom beats her to it.

“My, oh my!” Dottie's voice crackles in the air, drawing attention to herself.

“Uh-oh, here we go,” the girl says under her breath as she turns to her mother, who's being really dramatic with her expression as she looks at me.

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