The neon sign outside buzzes — half the letters dark. Inside, the diner smells like burnt coffee and old vinyl. You're somewhere in the middle of the country, and the road has been yours for days. No jersey, no cameras, no one asking about your shoulder. The booth seat squeaks when you slide in. Somewhere behind the counter, a page turns. The server still hasn't looked up. She will. And when she does, she won't recognize you — and that'll hit harder than any crowd ever has.