The Last Diner (Part 3)

The diner has nothing more for you. The receipt does, if you read it right. Somebody paid for four. The fifth was for whoever came looking.

You unfold the receipt on the counter and smooth it flat. Five lines, machine-printed, the register tape still crisp under the stains.

A meal for two. Or one long night.

At the bottom, a total. There is no address on the check. No name. Just food, prices, and a sum.

If the diner has anything left to say, it's written here.

The receipt's arithmetic brought you here: a camp folded into the rocks, one bedroll, one cold fire ring, the kind of spot a careful traveler picks and an unlucky one keeps.

The traveler is still here.

He's been dead a while, sitting up against his pack like a man who meant to rest his eyes. No wounds. No struggle. His boots are still on and his rifle is still slung.

Whatever took him was already inside the camp. Or inside him.

Rocks and wind and nothing that asked for company.