Henry's Diner downtown. Walk there at 6 am because you couldn't fall asleep, recent snowfall muffles the activity of a parcel delivery guy and a nearby plow. You shuffle in & hang your hat and jacket on the coatrack, you're the first person to comb through the local paper as you are greeted by some usual suspects. You have some fresh coffee and eavesdrop on the workers as they bundle up silverware and refill pepper shakers, they don't care if you hear about what they have to say about their guy friend. You pick from the homely list of Americana diner food and an old-timer a few chairs down at the counter makes a comment about your boots, which sends him into a tangent about how he used to mix his own cement as a teenager. You're not in a hurry so you indulge him. The sound of metal spatulas slapping against the flat top comes from the cooking area, along with the aroma of fresh sausage gravy and maple syrup. You peek at the cook through the serving window and they have a really cool tattoo that they probably regret.