Before anyone could say more, another one of the bikers took the old man’s milk, drank from it, and slammed it back down with a laugh. The third knocked the plate off the table. It shattered on the floor.
Still, no anger from the old man. He adjusted his cap, gave me a small nod, and quietly walked back out into the rain.
I watched him go, my stomach turning. It wasn’t right.
The lead biker turned to me, grinning. “Not much of a man, huh?”
I leaned in and spoke quietly. “Not much of a truck driver either.”
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I tilted my head toward the window.
Outside, headlights were pulling away. Just beyond them sat three motorcycles—no longer pristine. They hadn’t been touched, exactly. But something had clearly knocked them out of perfect condition. Bent metal, scratched chrome. Nothing anyone would ride off on tonight.
The laughter stopped.
The bikers rushed outside into the rain, but the old man’s truck was already halfway down the highway, taillights glowing in the mist.
Inside, the diner slowly returned to normal. Two truckers chuckled softly, and one—an old-timer named Marv—lifted his mug in a quiet toast.
“To the ones who don’t waste their breath,” he said.
I smiled and returned to wiping the counter. Sometimes the night shift gives you more than stories. Sometimes, it gives you a little justice—served warm, without saying a word.