As the neon, retro exterior buzzes gently against the night sky, the“I” in the DINER flickers softly. A rain-slicked asphalt reflects the warm honey-colored glow spilling through the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the counter, a strip of long, gleaming stainless steel, is lined with chrome-legged swivel stools with cracked, cherry-red vinyl tops. Against the walls and windows are high-backed, alcoves with duct-taped seams; they sport a well-worn, yet deeply comfortable, look. The bell rings as a customer walks in, letting a cool draft of evening air. Squinting past the bright lights, he shows himself to his usual spot: right next to the glass cake display dome, with a quarter-sliced pecan pie, humming on the counter. His hands shake slightly as he pulls the chair out. He habitually brushes aside the glass shakers of salt and pepper to make room for his elbows, and does he bother reading the laminated, slightly sticky tri-fold menu resting on the stainless steel napkin dispenser. The customer's arrival alerts a waitress in her mid-twenties who's washing her hands. She dries her hands, plucks a notepad and pencil from her crisp red uniform apron, then crosses the distance to the elderly in quick steps. A bright smile emerges on her face as she prepares to take his order. “What'll it be today?” she asks politely. The senior fixes an intensifying gaze on her face, as though trying to place her features. After a moment's hesitation, he answers, “Would you happen to have…carrot cake?” “Of course, would that be all for today?” she prompts, “How about a glass of warm milk to go with your dessert?” His eyes light up for a brief second, and his smile warms, as though a silent understanding hangs in the air between them. Then he nods in agreement. The waitress's radiant smile falters for a fraction of a second before she tightens her cheeks to force it back in place. With the order fresh in her mind, she places the unused notepad and pencil back in her uniform and tasks herself with readying the order. A couple minutes pass, and the lady returns. On her right palm, she carries the comforting scent of sweet cinnamon, sharp nutmeg, and rich brown sugar. The slice has a dark amber crumb with vibrant orange shreds and pale yellow bites; its frosting is thick and snowy-white. On her left hand, she holds a heavy, tinted glass three-quarters full with steaming milk. A distinctly nutty scent of toasted-grain rises with the steam and blends with the dessert's velvety aroma. The man looks up eagerly, with the eyes of a delighted child. He lifts his hands toward the drink as it arrives, then his hands suddenly retreat into balled fists. “Oh my. I'm afraid I can't have milk.” He mutters softly, almost incoherently. As though expecting this reaction, the waitress places a consoling hand on the weathered, knobby knuckles. With a reassuring smile, she says, “Don't worry, it's oat milk. Dairy free.” His shoulders drop with a deflated sigh, and his fingers relax against the counter. He nods meekly, as though the waitress's words struck a chord of pure trust, then reaches back out towards the warm glass. As he lifts the glass with both hands, his fingers soak in the warmth of the beverage. With a cautious sip, the robust and creamy taste of oat milk washes over him in a familiar way. The wrinkles of panic on his forehead are replaced by ease. Looking up at the young waitress, his eyes seem to clear and glisten beneath his white eyebrows. He reaches across the counter, placing his frail, wrinkled hand over hers. “I was feeling a bit lost today, dear,” he spoke in a soft, yet steady tone. “Yet, being here now, makes me feel like I'm finally home.” The waitress felt a single tear, long held back, escape her eye; it traced a hot path down her cheek. Instead of wiping it away and forcing a professional smile, she gives his warm hand a sharp squeeze back. “You are home,” she whispered in reply, anchoring herself to his touch. “Take your time, dad.”