#Chapter9
Ding-A-Dine was a quaint little diner on the north side of town. It had withstood more winters than I had been alive, and was solid enough that it granted the promise of surviving many more.
With a neon flashing sign above, and the car lot bordered off by high rising shrubs that concealed the flow of traffic that existed beyond, it had an old-timey feel to it. The inside décor was a sweet, honey-suckle shade, and the booths were brown leather that complimented it splendidly. It wasn't particularly busy, holding enough customers that the waitresses were not standing by idly, but it was empty enough that we entered without my chest constricting in panic, and finding a vacant booth was as easy as a sweeping gaze.
