I took care of my 85-year-old neighbor for her inheritance, but she left me nothing — then her lawyer knocked the next morning with a dented lunchbox and a key I wasn’t supposed to recognize.

He shrugged.

“You’ve got ten minutes to learn.”

That was Joe—rough, blunt, built like a refrigerator, and still one of the most decent people I had ever met. At the end of long shifts, he would shove a burger and fries at me and grumble.

“Eat before you pass out and make paperwork for me.”

Sometimes I stayed after closing to wipe down counters while he complained about suppliers, food prices, broken freezers, and people who ordered eggs in ways that should have been illegal. Mrs. Rhode came in every Tuesday and Thursday morning at exactly eight. The first time I waited on her, she squinted at my name tag.

“James. You look tired enough to fall face-first into my waffle.”

“Long week.”