For nearly 15 years, I’ve worked the night shift at Ed’s Truck Stop—a place where the coffee is strong and the stories are even stronger. Truckers, travelers, and the occasional troublemaker all pass through. You never know what kind of night you’re going to get.
It began like any other. Rain misted the windows, the neon sign flickered, and the scent of coffee and hash browns filled the air. Just past midnight, an older man stepped in. Slim, maybe late sixties, quiet. His worn jacket and slow movements suggested a life filled with stories he didn’t need to tell. He took a seat by the window and ordered apple pie and a glass of milk—simple, no fuss.
Then came the noise. Three men in motorcycle gear swaggered in, all loud voices and louder attitudes. They weren’t there for food. They tossed their helmets into a booth and started tossing around rude jokes like they owned the place.
It didn’t take long before they zeroed in on the old man.
“Look at this guy,” one of them scoffed. “Sitting all alone, drinking milk.”
The others laughed. One walked over and stubbed out his cigarette—right into the slice of pie. I was too stunned to stop it.
A thick silence fell. The tension was heavy, like the air before a storm.
But the old man? Calm as could be. He just stared for a moment, then slowly pulled out his wallet and dropped a couple of bills on the counter.
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