Nina
Enzo and I followed the old man, Frank, into the diner.
We were short on time, but Frank was right; we had an important journey ahead of us, and we couldn’t accomplish our goals on nothing but coffee and potato chips. Neither of us had eaten in over a day by now, and we were both starving.
Frank opened the door to the old retro diner, causing the little bell to hit the glass and jingle loudly. This diner was a lot like the one that I worked at; there were some vinyl-covered booths in the windows along with a long, enamel counter lined with stools. Everything seemed to be either a shade of sky blue or cream white — even the waitress’s uniform. It was, essentially, the quintessential North American diner. Aside from the fact that the people here were all werewolves or some other for
