Rowana spread her savings across the kitchen table and counted it three times. Enough to buy the empty diner on Main Street. Enough to feed every cold, tired person in town comfort food, like her mother taught her. But not enough to make a single mistake. She was seventeen. She could braise short ribs and bake bread from memory. She had never tracked a dollar in her life. Her dog pressed his black fur against her leg. She scratched behind his ears, but her eyes stayed on the stacked bills. "If I buy the stove and the dishes, Caver, I don't know what's left for food. I don't know what's left for anything." The numbers slid around in her head and refused to sit still. Snow ticked against the window. Her mother came in slowly, apron tied over her skirt, one hand on the doorframe for balance. Vivian was thinner than last winter. The sickness had taken her strength but not her sharp blue eyes, and those eyes went straight to the mess of money. "You're guessing," Vivian said. Not unkind. Just true. "A kitchen you can run blind. Money you cannot." She lowered herself into a chair and reached for Rowana's hand. "Go for it, baby. But don't let the counting beat you before you cook a single plate." Rowana's throat tightened. "I don't know how to count it. That's the whole problem." The front door opened. Her father stamped snow from his shoes and shrugged off his coat, white shirt and suspenders underneath. Harvy ran the bank. He had been working late every night to help pay for her dream. He saw the table and set down his leather satchel without a word. "How much to open?" he asked. "How much per week to stay open?" "I don't know," Rowana admitted. "I only know I can cook." Harvy pulled out a chair and opened the satchel. He took out a plain green ledger, the kind the bank used, and slid it in front of her. "Then we learn the rest tonight." He uncapped a pen. "Money in. Money out. Every day, one line. You skip a line, you go broke." For two hours they worked. He showed her how to list the stove, the plates, the first week of flour and meat. He drew a column for every dollar earned, a column for every dollar spent. Vivian corrected the food costs from memory, naming prices Rowana had never thought to ask. By midnight the ledger had a page. A real one. Rowana could see, in her own handwriting, exactly what the diner would cost and exactly what it needed to survive each week. She closed the book and held it to her chest. "I can do this now." Harvy nodded, then tapped the final figure. The weekly number was higher than she had feared. "You can," he said. "But you'll have to open soon. Your savings cover six weeks empty. After that, the diner has to pay for itself."

The walls came down and the booths went in. Ford's crew finished the patio by Thursday. Angela hung the last string light and stepped back, pleased. The diner was twice the size now. Rowana walked the new floor and counted empty seats. She did the math. More tables meant more orders. Her kitchen crew could not cover a floor this big. She needed more hands before the grand reopening, and she needed them fast. She posted a notice in the window. By morning, three people stood at the counter. The first was James, Dr. Young's son, back from the war with a short haircut and a hard set to his jaw. He studied the enlarged bar the way a soldier studies ground. "I tended a mess hall overseas," he said. "Loud rooms don't rattle me." He poured a test cocktail without spilling a drop. Rowana hired him for the bar. Next came Emily, bleach-blonde and bright, Amelia's daughter. She talked fast and smiled faster. "I'll charm every table in here," she said, striking a pose like a movie star. Behind her stood her twin, Phoebe, dressed head to toe in black. The war had taken Phoebe's husband, and she still wore the grief. She spoke quietly. "I don't need the spotlight. I just need the work." Rowana hired Emily as a server and Phoebe to cook. The last was Eleanor, the town librarian, black curls framing gray eyes. Her husband had died in the war too, and she carried the same quiet. "I keep order all day in a quiet room," she said. "I can keep order in a loud one." Rowana hired her as a server on the spot. Five new hires. The floor was staffed. Rowana crossed the last task off her list. Saturday was the grand reopening. The crowd pressed through the door before the sun cleared the rooftops. James worked the bar fast. Emily spun between booths with trays held high. Phoebe cooked without a word. Eleanor steadied the room. The kitchen kept pace. For the first time, the diner could hold every person who walked in. Then Rowana saw her mother. Vivian had come, frail and proud, to see the reopening. She sat near the window. Rowana crossed the floor to her. Vivian smiled, lifted one hand, and then slid sideways from the chair. The room went still. James caught Vivian before she hit the floor. Dr. Young happened to be dining nearby and reached her at once. "We need to get her to the clinic," he said. Rowana froze between her mother and her packed diner. Emily gripped her shoulder. "Go," she said. "We have this." Eleanor nodded. Phoebe was already back at the stove. Rowana rode with her mother. She held Vivian's hand through the whole trip. Her mother passed that afternoon, with Rowana beside her. The diner ran smooth all day without her. The reopening was a triumph. Rowana came home to a full register and an empty house.