In the wind-beaten seedy diner, my mother wipes the red plastic cup’s rim with her napkin. The dead scent of old oil hangs in the air. We will smell it for two days on our clothes. My sister and I have needs too cumbersome for our capacities: We want, we want, we want. Onion rings. Soggy French fries, the fizz of Diet Coke on our tongues. The rich chalk of milkshakes. Plates laden with such greasy comfort. I remember my mother’s voice: there’s nothing I want here— cut into the din of the diner, above the clatter of dishes, mugs stacked into each other, the swing of the two-way door.