It turned out that Miranda’s worries were largely unfounded. She dropped resumes at every Diner in the city and ended up on the breakfast shift four days a week at the first place that called her back, a greasy spoon just off the highway called Bree’s Inn. Her clinetelle were a mixture of elderly couples and gruff truck drivers just stopping in for a hot meal on their way through. She liked the work. She liked the customers. And it paid enough to cover her basic expenses, albeit without much left over. But then again, there wasn’t much to do in her spare time other than taking long walks in the forest and reading her way through her granddad’s home library so she didn’t mind. For the most part her days fell into a steady rhythm and she into that rhythm far more easily than she ever would have imagined. The weight she had been carrying all the way from Vancouver … if it did not lift, then at least had more room to expand around her instead of always crushing around her. She found it e
Aspiring filmmaker and publishing author.