"You've got a full swath of deliveries to make. Jeb's sent you an electronic mail with the delivery details for each bear... places, times, delivery instructions. Follow them to the letter, it's all very important. You do have time enough for lunch; I understand there's a lovely rest stop just up the highway on the way to your first delivery..."

"Oh? Thanks." She checks her phone, makes sure she has the appropriate information.

Looking back up at Grandma Scarlett, she says, "So – I guess I'll get going?"

"Yes, I believe so. Good luck, dearie!"

"Thanks," she responds, smiling.

So she gets back into the truck and looks at the list and programs in the first delivery location to her map app.

And on the way there she does in fact spot a rest stop when it's close to lunch.

She drives towards it and goes to park.

And a man who probably ate at the rest stop every meal of his life approaches her in a golf cart with the word "SECURITY" stenciled on the side.

"You can't park here!" he barks.

"– Uh, can't I?" she asks. "Sorry, why not?"

"That's a Class C Commercial Transport in a Class A Passenger Transport space," the sweaty fellow declares. "You don't belong in this parking lot. Official Department of Resources policy! You want the commercial parking lot at the other end of the rest area. Move along! Move along!"

Sure. She'll go park at the other end of the rest area, then.

The quaint charm of a roadside establishment rapidly fades as she eases her box truck down the line towards the commercial lot. Without the need to soothe the worries of folks stepping outside their comfort zones, the grass goes unmowed, oil spills aren't mopped up, and the asphalt clearly hasn't been resurfaced in thirty years.

Shiny minivans and chromed busses were replaced with filthy eighteen-wheelers and box trucks, haphazardly jammed into whatever space was available... leaving very little for Rachel, who showed up eleven minutes late to the lunch rush. She manages to find a space light years away from the trendy coffee shop, which would mean a brisk jog back and forth with little time to enjoy herself if she wanted to slog back through the oil and the litter...

Or she could go to Melba's, which was a stone's throw away.

She has no idea what Melba's is like.

What is Melba's like?

A flickering neon sign and windows so dirty you can't see through them. The restaurant screams "trucker culture."

She experiences a slight moment of frustration directed at Mr Security, then goes to the trucker culture place.

Melba's Diner's inside is exactly as advertised: dingy and smoky, full of turning heads emanating the scent of flannel soaked in engine oil. A steel guitar twangs away on a nearby vintage jukebox, likely wailing about foreclosures and divorces. There's someone wearing a large cap reading Female Body Inspector.

She tries very hard not to react to any of it and tries to find an empty seat.

No tables available, but she can find an empty stool if she looks, though it's hard—to find a stool at all, actually, as many have vanished completely up their occupant's backsides. But yes, there it is, one near the end of the row.

She takes a seat at it, trying not to look at the seat cover too much lest it reveal far too much.

The only other owner of a vagina in the building wanders in Rachel's direction, ready to take her order.

The heralded Melba, as declared by the name tag on her apron. An apron which is a war veteran of an apron, decorated in stains, an apron which has seen things. Melba herself is wide of girth and full of life, with her hair bunned up tight in a net behind her. Operator and owner, simultaneously subservient to the trucker's needs and the master and commander of their appetites. And looking a bit concerned for the out-of-place girl who had just walked in. Still, a customer's a customer.

"What can I getcha, hun?" Melba asks (with a twinge of sympathy).

"– Uh." She looks around a bit nervously, possibly due to the quiet. "What sorts of things do you do?"

"Oh, normal things, coffee, sandwiches, beer—but I don't serve no alcohol to anyone's drivin'—doughnuts..."

"Coffee and – cheese and ham sandwich? Plus a doughnut, please?"

Miss Melba offers a smile. "I think I can whip somethin' up for ya good," she offers. "Back in a jiff."

"Thanks."

23% of the testosterone present in the room waltzes on up behind her. It is, in fact, the proud owner of the Female Body Inspector hat. Those who aren't nervously minding their own business study the scene with interest.

It takes him some time to figure out where to start in on Rachel, but he decides to go with a classic. "Well, what do we got here?" he begins. "You"re a long way from the tourist trap, y'know. You want one of them fancy coffees in the tiny cups you'll want the other end of the rest stop. Name's Eddie; kind of a big deal around these parts. And in case you didn't notice, it’s all truckers in here, girl."