Page 5 of Nomad

She looked at him for a long time like she was deciding whether or not to answer and finally said, “Not a kid.”

The waitress arrived with two platters that smelled like heaven to both of them. “Did you want gravy with those biscuits?” she asked.

He said, “Yes,” just as Bud said, “No.”

“Right then,” said their server. “One side of gravy comin’ up.”

Bud began scooping up scrambled eggs like she hadn’t eaten in days. They clearly met with her approval, but she didn’t begin to make yummy noises until she started on the bacon. She ate the three pieces provided in record time and then looked over at Cann’s.

He snorted and pushed his plate closer. “Go ahead,” he said. He motioned to the waitress and when she came over he said, “Bring us another order of bacon and make us two BLTs to go.”

“Yep,” she said and hurried off to the kitchen.

Bud smiled when she realized he was offering her all three pieces of his bacon. After snatching all of them, she bit into the first one with relish. He watched her mouth and cursed himself for the thought that came to mind. She was a kid.

“This is good,” she said.

“Figured as much.”

They ate in silence, paid the bill, and attracted just as much attention on the way out as they had on the way in. Not much exciting happens in small Texas panhandle towns. So little, in fact, that two people who were not locals eating at the café was news.

Out on the sidewalk, with a toothpick between his teeth, Cann said, “There’s a People’s Bank there on the corner. Why don’t you walk over there with me?”

Bud pulled her bag tighter and looked up and down the street like she was weighing her options.

“Okay,” she said.

The bank had only been open five minutes when they arrived. Cann walked up to the teller window.

“Need a blank check,” he said.

“Do you have an account, sir?” asked the woman behind the glass.

“I do.”

She placed a blank check and a pen in the little curved valley of a tray below the glass. Cann made it out for five hundred dollars then placed the check and the pen back in the tray.

“May I see your driver’s license and your debit card?”

He pulled his wallet out of his pants, fished out the two plastic rectangles and placed them in the tray.

After performing several tasks that involved her keyboard, the teller said, “How would you like that, sir?”

“Two hundreds. Four fifties. Four twenties. Two tens.”

“Just a minute, sir,” she said. “I need to get your fifties from the back. Here’s your ID.”

She placed the two cards back into the tray.

Bud reached for his driver’s license before he did and he made no move to stop her.

“Cannon Johns,” she read from the face of his license. “Today’s your birthday.”

He hadn’t remembered that and wouldn’t have thought about it if she hadn’t said something.

“Huh,” he replied.

“My birthday is in another week.”

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