Joe’s wife, her short gray hair neatly covered in a net, pushed through the swinging kitchen doors and out into the diner, wiping her hands on a towel. “The boys coming, sweetie?”

Nicole’s lips twitched. Although it was a bit tricky assessing the ages of the men trooping over from the homeless shelter, most of them had to be about Connie’s age or not much younger than her seventy years. Still, she always called them the boys with such affection in her voice it was clearly a term of endearment to her. Respect, even. Nicole turned back and narrowed her eyes, trying to distinguish between the snow-covered shapes huddled together as they passed beneath the dim glow of the streetlight on the corner. “Yep. Looks like four or five of them.”

Connie tossed her towel below the cash register and glanced at the clock above the door. “Almost eight. Right on time.” She pulled a pot from the coffee maker on the counter. “They’ll be looking for this, with all that snow coming down.” She lifted the pot in Nicole’s direction. “Sure you don’t want to help them tonight?”

Nicole bit her lip. It wouldn’t kill her to take a turn waiting on the group of men that wound up at Joe’s most nights looking for hot coffee and a warm smile. Connie served both as naturally as she breathed. As good as Nicole had become at pouring coffee, though, she’d never been able to master the other, not for the unkempt people that trudged in sporting several layers of clothes and several more layers of grime.