PART 2 The nurse’s name was Nadine Fogarty. She parked her Corolla and came inside the coffee stand, still in her scrubs, still holding my phone. “Three years ago,” she said slowly, “I was a night nurse in hospice. There was a woman named Maureen Whitley. Ovarian cancer. She was only 41.”

I came every afternoon after mine.

On the ninth day, Jonah opened his eyes.

The first person he saw was Nadine.

He looked confused for a long time.

Then he whispered, “Small vanilla latte.”

She laughed so hard she cried.

Jonah spent three weeks in rehab learning to walk without a cane.

Word got around Bangor.

The local news did a story. People started coming to my window and paying for the car behind them. Every morning. For weeks.

Even Kurt paid for one. He didn’t tell anyone. I saw him do it.

When Jonah finally came back to the drive-thru in April, the line was eleven cars long.

He ordered a small hot chocolate.

Then he checked his rearview mirror out of habit.

Nadine’s Corolla was right behind him.

But this time, before he could say anything, I handed him a cup.

“Already paid,” I said. “By the car behind you.”