This is the busiest world in the game: eighteen people sitting down, more than in any other room, and twelve more on their feet, the waitress on roller skates, someone at the grill in a paper hat, a trucker with a cap in hand. Put the booths in first, along the window, then the counter, then fill the seats one by one, which is how a diner fills up after midnight.
Set a milkshake on a formica table and it belongs to the table. Move the table later and the burger, the ketchup and the napkin dispenser travel with it. Slide a stool behind the counter and it stays there, so the room keeps its depth from the door to the grill.
Turn the evening on and the neon takes over: eight tubes bent into shapes along the walls and sixteen machines that glow, more than in any other world, from the jukebox to the coffee pot.
Nothing is counted and nobody asks for the bill. You stop when the coffee is still hot and the room looks awake enough, which is a strange thing to want at two in the morning.
