Sal’s Diner sat like a stubborn shadow at the edge of Route 19, its neon sign buzzing against the emptiness of the desert highway. The paint had faded to the color of bone, the windows clouded with a greasy haze no amount of scrubbing could fix. It was the kind of place truckers only stopped at when they couldn’t keep their eyes open, or when the nearest town was too far to reach without risking a drift into a ditch.
Inside, the air always smelled faintly of burnt coffee and fried onions, no matter the hour. The counter was chipped Formica, patched with duct tape in a few places. The booths sagged under the weight of years and too many tired bodies. Behind the counter hung the tab.
It wasn’t a normal restaurant tab. The kind you keep for regulars who swear they’ll pay on payday. This one was older. A sheet of yellowed paper, the edges curled, pinned under a crooked piece of plastic. Names were written in shaky black ink, each followed by a number scrawled in deep red. Some names were crossed out, the red lines slashing through them like wounds.
The first time Carla noticed it, she had been leaning against the counter during a dead stretch between the dinner and midnight rush—if you could call it a rush when only two people came in. She was the newest waitress, fresh from a busted relationship and a bus ticket that had dumped her in the middle of nowhere.
“What’s that?”
She asked, nodding toward the tab. Sal, the owner, didn’t look up from the grill. He was a heavy man with skin like old leather, his thinning hair hidden under a stained cap.
“It’s the house ledger.”
“Ledger?”
“They’ll settle up,”
He said simply, like it was the end of the conversation. She waited for more, but none came. The hiss of the fryer filled the silence. It became background after that. She’d catch herself glancing at it when the place was quiet, wondering who Rusty or Mags or Jo were, what they owed, and why their debts were marked in red ink instead of black.
It was a Thursday night, slow enough that she could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the back. The clock over the coffee machine read 11:47 when the door creaked open. The man who walked in didn’t fit the regular pattern of truckers or tired locals. He was tall but slouched, his greasy hair hanging over a face the color of spoiled milk. His coat looked like it had been slept in for weeks. He didn’t sit. Didn’t look at the menu. Instead, he shuffled toward the counter and stopped in front of the tab.
Carla came over, ready to ask what he wanted, but his eyes never left the paper. They were yellowed, rimmed with red, and so flat it made her stomach twist.
“You okay there, sir?”
She asked. He didn’t answer. His gaze slid over the names until it landed on one. Rusty. She noticed his lips move slightly, as if he were mouthing the letters. Then, without looking at her, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. He set it on the counter. It was damp soft, almost spongy and it smelled wrong. Like dirt. Not clean garden soil, but the kind of soil that came from something long-buried. Before she could say anything, he turned and walked out.
The next night, she came in for her shift and glanced at the tab out of habit. Rusty’s name was gone. A deep red slash had crossed it out. Sal was at the counter, pouring himself coffee. She pointed at the paper.
“Hey… that guy from last night? He—”
Sal smirked, like she’d just solved a riddle he hadn’t asked her to.
“Told you. They settle up.”
He didn’t say more. He never did. The weeks passed. Winter crept in, the kind of cold that made the diner’s neon look sharper against the night sky. Sometimes she’d catch sight of strangers pulling off the highway—men and women with hollow faces, carrying something heavy in their silence. And the tab kept changing. A name here, a name there, crossed out in red.
Then, one night near closing, she noticed something that made her throat go dry. Her own name was at the very bottom.
Carla. — $18.45
She hadn’t put it there. It was true she’d had a couple meals on credit when she first started, but Sal had told her not to worry about it. Now, the debt sat there in black ink like it had been waiting for her to notice. She told herself she was being stupid. People kept tabs all the time. She’d pay it off tomorrow. Except the next night, it was gone. Her name had been crossed out in red. Paid. She confronted Sal in the kitchen.
“Why’d you take my name off the tab? I didn’t give you any money.”
Sal just looked at her.
“Debt’s paid.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Debt’s paid,”
He repeated, turning back to the grill. Something in his tone told her not to push further. She didn’t sleep that night. Every creak in her apartment sounded like a footstep. Every shadow under her door seemed thicker than it should have been. By morning, she’d made up her mind. She quit. No notice, no goodbye. Just left the keys on the counter before sunrise and walked away from Sal’s Diner for good.
Two days later, while packing to leave town, she heard scratching at her apartment door. When she opened it, there was no one there. Only a single dollar bill on the doormat. Damp and smelling faintly of dirt. She didn’t touch it. By the next morning, it was gone.
On her way out of town, she passed Sal’s Diner one last time. The neon sign buzzed against the gray sky. Through the window, she could see the tab still hanging in its place. A new name had been added at the bottom. And the red ink was fresh.
