A bell jingled as I walked through the door into the dim diner. An old screen door squealed behind me and shut with a bang. Nobody’s going to sneak up on these folks.

The Last Chance Café was the only place in town to get a meal. That’s what the guy at Gus’s Gas told me, anyway. The only other establishment, he said, was Carl’s Bad Tavern, but the only food they offered was pretzels.

I took a seat on a squeaky Naugahyde booth that used to be crimson, but now was faded in spots and patched with duct tape.

“What can I get you, hon?” a busty redhead asked. Of course she was popping gum. What is this place anyway? Stereotypeland?

“I’ll take the special. Fried chicken, right?”

“Yep. With mashed ‘taters and coleslaw. Anything to drink?”

I really wanted water, but wasn’t sure I trusted the water to be drinkable. “Coke, please.”

I shifted in the seat and peered out the window. “What in the world?” I jumped from my seat to get a closer look. “What is that on my car?”

Last time we caught up with Stinky Nate, he’d impulsively hopped a city bus to Roseville in search of his true “roots.”

Sensible or not, Stinky Nate was never afraid of doing something a little bit crazy—especially on a whim.

Examples from his personal history proved this again and again. In fact, two days before his senior pictures were taken, he dyed his hair indigo (and eyebrows to match) because he thought bluish purple would render him more dramatic like a vampire, his obsession of the moment.

His suburbanite parents were mortified, of course, but there was no stopping Stinky Nate once he got an idea in his head. I mean, this is a guy who showers once every two months, and once ate only foods that started with the letter pfor three months (thankfully, his beloved polenta was included or he would’ve starved) because it “sounded like fun.”