Two blocks away, Vicky’s Diner smelled of coffee and fried onions. A woman in her seventies, with sharp eyes softened by kindness, nodded when Margaret mentioned the name. “Dave Lake, he called himself. Polite, hard-working. Played guitar at our open-mic nights. He left his mark here, that’s for sure.”
She disappeared briefly, returning with a worn photograph: David at twenty-seven, guitar in hand, smiling toward a small crowd. “He built benches for the community hall. Helped kids fix their bikes. Everyone liked him. Said he couldn’t go back, not while his parents lived. Too much hurt, he felt.”