"Good fish."
"Mae's order came up if you want something before you head out again." He nodded at the dining room. "Breakfast sandwich."
"Someone mentioned it."
"They were right to." He slid a key card across the counter. "Housekeeping went up already."
I stopped. "You order from the Switchback every morning?"
"Mae decided the lodge kitchen was morally insufficient for breakfast about two years ago." He said it without any particular feeling about it—just a fact about his life. "I stopped arguing."
"She decide that herself or did she tell you she'd decided it?"
Something shifted in his expression, close enough to amusement that I counted it. "She came in one morning with a basket of cinnamon rolls and informed me she'd be sending breakfast over daily going forward. I asked if I had a say in the matter." He straightened a stack of papers on the desk. "She said of course I did."
"But."
"But she'd already arranged the delivery schedule." He looked up. "Mae's good at making people agree to things."
I almost smiled. "I'll go down."
"The sandwich," he said, as I turned. "If you haven't had it. It'll hold you through a full day on the water."
"You said that already."
"Worth repeating."
He picked up his phone, conversation done, and I walked back out into the morning.
The Switchback was busy but past the worst of the rush. The smell of cinnamon hit before the door finished opening. I took the stool at the far end of the counter—back to the wall, clear sightline—and Mia came down with a mug before I'd gotten settled.
"You came in," she said.
"You recommended it."
"I recommend it to everyone." She set the mug down. "You're the first one who showed up inside twenty minutes."
"It's a short drive."
"It's not about the drive." She leaned on the counter for half a second—easy, unhurried. "Most people decide they'll come in later and then don't. You just came."
"I was hungry."
She looked at me like she didn't entirely believe that was the whole reason, but she didn't push it. She went back to work without needing me to fill the silence. I appreciated that more than I could have explained.
Mae appeared at my elbow from somewhere I hadn't tracked and set a plate in front of me without asking. Egg, bacon, cheese, something spread on the bread that smelled better than it had any right to. She patted my arm and disappeared.
"She does that," Mia said, from down the counter.
"I noticed."
"Some people find it overbearing."
"She's feeding people," I said. "That's not overbearing."
She stopped what she was doing and looked at me. "That's exactly what it is. Most people don’t see the difference."
She came back down when I was halfway through the sandwich and topped off my coffee without asking, same as every other morning I'd been in. I'd picked up on that early—the way she kept track. Not just orders. Habits. The couple by the window got decaf without saying a word. The old man in the corner had his mug set to the right, something off with his left hand. She paid attention, stored it, used it. No hesitation, no wasted motion. Like it was second nature—and like she didn't miss much.
