It was just past 2 AM on a Tuesday in late November, somewhere outside a town called Balsam Ridge, Tennessee. I pulled off at a Waffle House that shouldn't have been open — the parking lot was empty, the sign was dark, but there was one light on inside. The waitress had a name tag that said 'Beth' but she didn't seem to remember her own name. She poured me coffee that tasted like ash and told me about the last customer who came in, a man who sat in booth four for three hours and whispered something to the jukebox before he left. I stayed until the sun started to come up, and I still don't know if I was the only one still alive in that building.

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