The cool interior of the small café was furnished with four mismatched tables—two to the right and two to the left of a curved wooden counter. At each table were four equally mismatched chairs. Occupying three of those chairs at the nearest of the tables to my left were three old men.
They tried not to show their interests were instantly aroused by an unfamiliar face entering their domain. However, I knew I would continue to be mentioned in the old men’s groups around town for at least a few days, if not more. “This young thang from up north come in to Pam’s the other day. Come to find out, the sheriff had sent her down there while he figured out what to do about her colored friend who he had locked up at the jail.” Or something like that.