Hope In A Huddle House

I missed this from Sunday. Dan Barry: The man emerged from the night's anonymity to sit at the counter, across from the stainless steel grill and the stacks of white plates. He wore a blue jacket appropriate for the January cold, but his left hand was covered with writing of some kind. And, ever so softly, he was talking to himself.

It was 3:20 on the second morning of a new year indistinguishable still from the difficult one just past, in a 24-hour chain restaurant on Highway 41 called the Huddle House, where pie and respite are served to the hungry and solitary. The tired waitress, Patsy Schirmer, pulling a rare overnight, approached the customer and asked:

What can I get for you?