“Yes, dear, I think you can. I know you can, really.” She smiled again, her eyes crinkling nearly all the way up to her hairline, a bright white tangle pulled into a loose knob at the top of her head, and started her slow, methodical shuffle to the closest booth.

“Can I start you off with a drink?” I asked, loud and pronounced, as I put a sticky menu down on the table in front of her. “We have Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite—”

“Just a water for now, my dear,” she cut in. “With lemon and a little dollop of sugar, if you don’t mind.”

“Sugar water and lemon, coming right up,” I said brightly, as if I got that request all the time, glad for an excuse to turn away and let the edges of my tight smile slip. I grabbed a small paper cup on my way through the kitchen and dragged it along the bottom of the cooler, at that point filled with mostly melted ice water. I sprinkled in a packet of sugar and topped it off with the last wedge of shriveled lemon, and then I started back for the dining room.

I could hear my phone vibrating on the shelf beneath the register, and I looked up at the clock. Ten on the dot. I knew it would be my boyfriend, Nate, checking in to see if I was still coming over to his place, where practically half of the junior class was already gathered, celebrating life and nearly three months of freedom. But I kept walking toward the table, efficiency being my top priority. Older people rarely ate more than half of the food on their plates, so with any luck, this lady would gum a few bites of pizza and be out in less than ten minutes.

“What else can I get for you, ma’am?” I asked, placing the cup between her shaky fingers. Her clasped hands were laced with veins so pronounced and so blue, I almost had to reach out and touch her, had to feel for myself the mark of that much time, that many years of life. I turned my gaze over to her face, the wrinkles etched so deeply into the papery white skin that her other features—her eyes, her nose, her mouth—seemed to poke out defiantly from the folds, as if they were determined not to be swallowed up and erased from existence altogether. She was without a doubt the oldest woman I’d ever seen in person.

“I think the water should be just fine for now,” she said, and I snapped back, realizing how closely I’d been staring at her. She smiled again and reached out with one of her hands, patting my wrist as if she had somehow heard my thoughts. I flinched at the leathery cool of her touch.

“A little conversation would be nice, too. Would you sit with me for a bit?”

Frustration flashed across my face before I could check myself, but if the old woman noticed the brief slip, she appeared unfazed, nodding toward the opposite bench of the booth. Guilt settled into my stomach, and I knew I shouldn’t reject her. It could have been weeks, months, since she’d had any real human interaction. Maybe she had no family, no kids or grandkids to take care of her. I thought of my own grandmothers, both gone, and missed them with such a sharp, surprising pang that I sat down without even realizing I’d made the decision.

“What a lovely, happy place to work,” she said, her wispy voice crackling with effort. “Such wonderful decor, don’t you think?”

I glanced around the dining room as if I hadn’t seen it thousands of times before, and assumed she must be kidding. Frankie’s was a complete pizza joint cliché, tables covered in faded red-and-white-checkered cloths, bunches of plastic grapes clumped along the ceiling, Catholic icons and other biblical paintings squeezed in against landscapes of the homeland and pictures of wine bottles and fancy cheese wheels.

She appeared to be sincere, though, no hint of sarcasm in her twinkling eyes as she looked up at the life-size portrait of the Madonna hanging above our table. It was fairly standard, a poker-faced Mary with a chubby baby Jesus in her arms, halos over their heads. I frowned, noticing the layer of dust coating the painting’s thick bronze frame. That would have to be a job for tomorrow’s waitress.

“Sure, it’s nice enough, I suppose,” I said. “I’ve worked here for so long, I guess I don’t really think about it anymore.”

“You’re a dedicated young lady, working on a Friday night when you could be enjoying yourself instead.” She reached out and covered one of my hands with her spindly fingers. “They’re lucky to have you.”

I blinked, shaking off her strange spell, and shifted my eyes back to the clock. Our kitchen guys, Carl and Johnny, were in the back with Frankie, prepping for tomorrow and no doubt waiting for me on any last plates and utensils that needed to be washed. My hand felt prickly, and I itched to pull it out from under the old woman’s grip, but I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint her so soon. There was something about her, the hopeful twist of her smile, the soft shine of her eyes, that made me want to please her.

“Do you live in town?” I asked, still curious how a woman like this could exist in Green Hill without me knowing.

“Oh no, no,” she gasped, shaking her head. “I’m not from here. This isn’t my kind of home.”

I laughed out loud. “Yeah, you’re not alone. Green Hill certainly isn’t for everyone.”

She looked puzzled for a second, tilting her head at my response. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, dear, but no bother. I must explain something to you now, something very important. I’m here in your town, in this restaurant, for a special reason.” She paused for a few seconds, taking in a deep, rattling breath. “I’m here to see you.”

A chill spread up through my arm, and I looked down at my hand, numb under the strange, unfamiliar pressure of her palm.

“Why would you be here to see me?” I paused, torn between the desire to humor her and the desire to put as much distance between us as possible. My eyes shifted over to the closed kitchen doors. Why hadn’t Johnny or Carl come out to harass me about the dirty plates yet? They were usually so dependably cranky at the end of a shift. Why be so patient with me tonight of all nights?

I turned back to her. “We’ve never met before, ma’am,” I said, slow and even, the same tone I would use if I were explaining some serious fact of life to a kindergartner. “You don’t know me. You couldn’t possibly be in Green Hill to see me.”

“Oh, Mina,” she said. “Mina, Mina.” She was shaking her head as if I were the five-year-old who needed to understand. “Just because we’ve never met before doesn’t mean I don’t know you.”

I leaned back and jerked my hand free from her grasp. Not disappointing her no longer felt like the most pressing concern. “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve always known your name, Mina. I’ve always known everything about you . . .” Her voice trailed off. She bit down on her lower lip and squirmed in her seat, her body squealing against the shiny plastic upholstery.

“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’m not explaining myself very well, am I?” she said after a few more tense seconds—tense seconds in which I was busy debating the ethics of defending myself in a physical altercation with this obviously very disturbed old lady. That ratty, moth-holed jacket of hers could have easily been hiding a whole treasure trove of potential weapons: a rusty letter opener, knitting needles, the broken shards of a reading glass. It was a balmy June night, after all, and the quilted coat was excessive—maybe it was serving some ulterior purpose beyond just keeping her warm. And her black cane, the cane that had seemed completely innocuous a few minutes ago, suddenly looked so ominous propped against the crook of her arm. Maybe those wrinkles were expertly molded on like a mask, some fancy trick of makeup, and she was actually a spry and powerful warrior who could ninja-kick me over the back of the booth.

Nate had made me watch too many superhero action movies for my own good. My already very creative mind didn’t need the additional material.