She worked because exhaustion was manageable.
She worked because stopping meant feeling everything.
As she counted the register, a blast of wind shoved the front door open just enough for the bell to chime weakly.
Frowning, Marina stepped out from behind the counter.
And then she saw him.
Through rain-fogged glass, beneath a dim streetlamp, sat an elderly man in a wheelchair. His jacket was soaked through, shoulders hunched, hands shaking violently as rain streamed down his face. No car. No companion. Just a man left in the storm, as if the world had forgotten him.
Her stomach dropped.
“Oh no,” she breathed.
She didn’t hesitate. The door flew open and rain stung her skin as she hurried to him.
“Sir?” she asked, crouching. “Can you hear me?”
He lifted his head slowly. His lips were bluish, eyes unfocused, breath shallow. He tried to speak, but only a broken sound escaped.
That was enough.
“Not out here,” Marina said, already gripping the chair. “Absolutely not.”
She pushed hard, wheels slipping on wet pavement, forcing him inside as if dragging him back from something darker than the storm itself.
She wrapped him in the diner’s only spare blanket and guided him into a booth.