Finding the sandwich shop wasn't hard. The city air was ripe with the smell of gasoline and the usual sights and sounds of the noon lunch rush, but it didn't take long for Tabitha's nose to pick out the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from a few blocks up the road. Tabitha had never spent more than a few hours in Peach Creek, and because most of her family and friends lived within just a few miles of Lemon Brook, rarely did she have an excuse to pay her neighboring metropolis a visit. A long time ago, she thought to herself, following her nose up and down the winding city block, she might have spent a night or two in town. She had trouble remembering exactly why. It might have been for a distant relative's funeral or something. But she couldn't say for sure. Nana Vorlick's Old World Sandwich House was a typical hole-in-the-wall kind of place. Compact on the outside, but surprisingly large on the inside. Most Mom n' Pop style restaurants keep a little bell or something anchored to the front door so employees know when a hungry customer is closing in. Not Nana Vorlick's. Instead, incoming guests were treated to the gentle crank of a sheep whistle. The sound of bleating sheep made her even hungrier. Lamb was pretty darn tasty, especially when seasoned and sandwiched between two thick slices of spiced bread.

She quietly took a seat near the counter and waited for someone from the wait-staff to usher her inside. The sandwich house definitely had an "ethnic" vibe about it. Nana Vorlick's didn't play. "Old world sandwich shop" wasn't just in a title. The whole "sheep" theme stretched as far and wide as the store itself. There were no quaint little pictures of sailing ships or local sports teams hanging on the walls. Instead, shepherd crooks of all shapes, sizes, and colors fought for shelf-space above funny-looking tables and chairs. The few pictures she could pick out looked quite old and had been framed with great care. The men and women depicted in the portraits all looked alike, and were probably ripped out of the same old scrapbook. Likely the family that owns the place, Tabitha thought. Most of the tables were too large to hold just one or two people. Everything looked to be set up family-style. Eating with strangers wasn't something the she was accustomed to, so she privately wished that the lunch rush wouldn't be too bad.

From the very back of the restaurant, she could hear the cooks and the wait-staff shouting at one another in a language she didn't understand. When she raised her head a little bit to try and listen more closely, she saw that the old-school blackboard-and-chalk style menu hanging above the countertop was written in two different languages. Though she could just barely make out the poorly shaped English letters, what really caught her eyes were the beautiful letters that occupied the other side of the chalkboard. Whatever alphabet the letters called home she wasn't sure, but the author's calligraphy was beautiful. Patiently she waited by the counter, watching customers and staff hustle about the shop. Soon, she found herself in the company of a very eclectic group of people. It seemed Nana Vorlick's was popular with everyone. Behind her stood some business-tycoon looking folks and a merry crew of construction workers. At the very back of the line, stretching all the way out the door, a line of school children was beginning to form. Their poor teacher had her hands full, bussing her students in and out and around everyone else queueing up for a bite to eat. A neat little place like this probably made for a cool field trip.

Nana Vorlick's looked to be split into two distinct parts. Off to the left were the tables, the bar, and a dozen or so rocking chairs. The dining area was well furnished and cozy looking, dignified without being too stuffy. The right side of the restaurant, which stretched into the deepest, darkest part of the deli, was cramped with shelves and wooden crates and miniature shopping carts. The smell of pickled vegetables and cured meats assailed the young woman's nostrils whenever a member of the wait-staff hastily shuffled past one of the shelves on his way towards the dining room. She checked her watch and nervously rubbed her coupon against her fingers. It was almost a quarter after twelve o'clock noon, and there was no sign of the little blonde waitress the police officer had so fondly described. On the contrary, everyone she saw in uniform looked to be fresh off the boat from some foreign country her poor western tongue couldn't begin to pronounce. To pass the time, she studied the menu. A particularly tasty description of a classic Italian sub grabbed her attention.

Before she could pick out her preferred side-dish, the sound of a sheep bleating broke her concentration. Behind her, she could feel the line shifting. The young woman tucked her coupon back inside of her pocket and stepped to the side instinctively when she heard the sound of heels fast approaching. The small door in front of her separating the customers from the register swung to the side and when Tabitha looked up, a little blonde twenty-something waitress was smiling sweetly back at her.

"I'm so sorry we've kept you waiting. You know how evil traffic is this time of day, especially around here." The blonde reached into her uniform's breast pocket and withdrew a small notepad. She raised her fingers high and gave her pen a quick click, showing off her glossy, burgundy nails. "So, what would you like Nana Vorlick's to fix you today?"

The young woman stared the blonde down silently, doing her best to match her body type with the description the officer had given her at the station. This chick could definitely be her. She was tiny, just like he said, and wore her blonde hair short. Her nails were bright and her waist was thin. Though she didn't seem too happy to have to work in an old world style apron and dress combo, she had made the most of the few options she had as an employee and customized her ensemble with a few brightly colored pins and bangles. Underneath her long white sleeves, the outline of what appeared to be a small tattoo could be seen. Nervously, the young woman handed the waitress her coupon.

"I'd like the Italian sub, please," she mumbled. "With a side of fries and a small cola." The waitress gave her a plastic smile and accepted the coupon. When she took a closer look at the coupon to verify its expiration date, the young woman saw the blonde's composure slip. She let the red coupon roll right off her fingers and slowly drift towards the floor. The blonde snapped back to reality just before the coupon touched the floor, and quickly snatched it up. Instead of depositing the coupon into the register, she folded it in two and slipped it into her apron's pouch.

"And where would you like to sit today?" The way the waitress' eyes were now shining expectantly at her made the young woman feel like something of a celebrity. It wasn't a sensation she was used to, and wasn't sure what to do about it. She tried to recall what the officer had told her about the waitress and the sandwich shop, and did her best to stick to his advice.

"If you have a seat available, I'd like a small table in the back." The waitress smiled back at her and gently took her by the hand. Her expression seemed so much more genuine now than it had been before. Tucked away in the darkest corner of the dining room, across from one of the larger family-sized tables and tucked behind pots of strange looking plants, was a small circular table with two chairs. As the young woman slipped into her chair, she began to notice just how quiet the spot was compared to the hustle and bustle going down across the rest of the dining area. The waitress unspooled the plaid tablecloth and made sure her guest was tucked in nice and comfy before she lowered her voice and whispered something into her ear.

"Once I take care of the rest of our guests, I'd like to join you for lunch. I've got some break time stored up from a few months ago that I haven't used yet, and my boss is a pushover anyway." The young woman nodded and sent the blonde waitress on her way with a smile of her own. From her spot in the corner, she watched as the blonde waitress catered to the rest of the lunch rush. She handled the stress well, expertly conducting the flow of both people and food. No matter how specific or asinine a customer's request, the waitress made sure to keep track of everything and everyone. When she arrived late just a few minutes ago, Tabitha was expecting to see the blonde get chewed out by management, but after watching her work, she could understand why nobody complained. They needed a cute employee like her to bring customers in and keep them satisfied. The way she could balance four or five plates along her thin arms while simultaneously weaving in and out of hungry customers and rambunctious kids made her think the waitress had magnets stuffed inside of her billowy sleeves. The more time she spent watching her and listening to her talk and joke around with her customers, the harder it was for the young woman to shake the sinking suspicion that she knew that blonde waitress from somewhere. It was becoming all too easy to predict what she was going to say and where she was going to go.

About five minutes later, her meal arrived, much sooner than she expected. She worried the blonde waitress might deliver it to her once she was through tending to the other guests. Instead, it arrived in the arms of a handsome stranger. We all have our own priorities when we meet someone new. Sometimes we notice the sound of their footsteps first, and other times we pick up on their natural scent before noticing what color hair they have or how long it is. What we notice first depends on our own dispositions and expectations. The very first thing Tabitha noticed about the man delivering her food was his incredible height. 6" 7', easy. Maybe 6" 8', if he wore some thick soled shoes. The second thing about him that she picked up on was his hands. His nails and cuticles were clean-cut and well-manicured, but the man's leathery hands and cratered callouses betrayed his experience as a laborer. This man probably buttered his toast with good old fashioned elbow grease. His hair was a deep, contemplative blue hue, bound tightly in a ponytail. She didn't know many men who could rock facial hair quite like this guy. His beard wasn't especially thick, but it wrapped around his muscular jawline nicely and seemed to settle so comfortably between his ears and his chin. When she was caught staring, the waiter squeezed his eyes shut tightly and beamed at her.

"Hallo, miss. You like Nana's old fashioned sandwich recipe, yes?"

What an accent. It suited his feathered cap and green overalls perfectly. She hadn't heard anything like it before. This man was definitely from the "Old World". His voice was so much higher than she anticipated, but it wasn't unpleasant. It made him sound so cheerful. She smiled back at him and nodded.

"Yes, I've been looking forward to it all week." The waiter raised the glass bottle cola high and popped the cap open with one quick twist. As he did, his sleeves drooped a bit, exposing his chiseled forearm. Holding a frosty stein in one hand and the glass bottle cola in the other, he tipped the lip of the cola bottle against the stein and slowly poured.

"To keep the cola from spilling over, miss," he told her, stealthily puffing out his chest as he poured. He seemed pretty proud of himself for knowing something so simple. The young woman had seen something like this before. Her mother, who waitressed her fair share of tables in high school, learned from an early age this was the best way to pour a soda or a beer for a customer without drowning them in fizz.

He placed the stein at her table and her club sandwich beside it. The bread was piping hot and oozing that delicious "freshly baked" aroma Tabitha craved. The waiter tucked the metal tray underneath his arm and turned to leave.

"If you need anything at all, miss, just give Rolf a…how you say…holler, yes?" He turned to the young woman expectantly and began rolling his hands back and forth, like he was trying to filter out the wavering confidence in his voice. She smiled back at him and nodded.

"I'll do just that. Thank you, Rolf." Pleased with himself for picking the right word at the right time, the waiter gave himself a literal pat-on-the-back before slipping back into the kitchen.

"Don't let 'ol Rolf for you, kiddo. That guy might've been able to pull off whole immigrant kid routine when we were kids, but now that man's just as westernized as you or me." The blonde waitress had returned, carrying with her a small cup of coffee and what looked to be a particularly thick PB&J sandwich. The bread was so dense it was hard to tell if the white brick weighing down her plate was a sandwich or a slice of cake. She made herself comfortable in the chair across from the young woman and took a quick bite out of her sandwich.

"If you came here with one of our limited edition coupons," she said between bites, "then someone down at Peach Creek PD must've sent you this way." Tabitha nodded and took a big bite out of her own sandwich, determined to prove to the blonde that she was the true sandwich connoisseur. The blonde put down her lunch and started to mold the air with her hands.

"Let me guess. You talked with a big, gingery, shovel-chin looking homeboy, right? Kinda angry looking? Orange peach fuzz…right around here?" She winked at her guest and made an exaggerated pouting expression, tracing the bottom of her chin with her burgundy nails. She had hit the nail on the head, mostly.

"That sounds about right," the young woman replied, taking a gentle sip of her cola and then hastily stifling an unexpected belch. "Though I don't know if I'd describe him as being 'angry looking'. Maybe stern." As much as she hated to admit it, the way the officer treated her had been nothing if not professional. The waitress laughed.

"That right? Shoot, honey, Kev's slippin' on us. That fool might just have a heart after all." The blonde's demeanor changed after that little jab. She closed her eyes and slowly lowered the crust of her own sandwich back onto her plate. After draining her cup of its caffeinated contents, she knit her hands together pensively and stared at her guest, cutting a hole through her sandwich and right into her heart. Tabitha started back at the blonde, chewing nervously. She loudly swallowed. How a woman could go from such a jovial state to one so somber without suffering crippling whiplash must've been something of a miracle.

"If he's sent you to us, then there must've been some kind of breakthrough, right?"

A few more nervous nibbles. Breakthrough?

"Kev wouldn't have asked you to come visit us unless he was positive you knew something about them. Did you meet them? Or did you just see one of them?"

Meet who? See what? Them? Tabitha forced her brain to go from zero to one hundred in a flash. She needed to start making sense of all of the puzzles pieces she had been assembling since she arrived in Peach Creek, starting with the identity of the blonde waitress. Deep into her memories of Saint she retreated, and slowly, surely, she started recovering the details she could recall about the childhood friends he had gushed so much about.

"She must be Nazz," the young woman thought to herself. "Blonde. Full figured. Kinda ditzy, but seems earnest and sweet. Fits Saint's description well enough." What other details she could remember about Nazz were limited to minor things about her physical appearance and the fact that when he was just a kid, Saint had harbored something of a crush for her. Next on the list was the police officer. She definitely remembered a Kevin from Saint's stories, so it stood to reason "Kev" and Kevin were the same man. She wanted to kick herself for not picking up on the subtle similarities between the police officer and the Kevin from Saint's memories. The man he had described to her was a brash, angry, juvenile kind of guy however, so she had just assumed the red hair and shovel-chin were a coincidence. She could only guess the circumstances of his work had weeded out his aggressive disposition and replaced it with a more disciplined one. Rolf was a no brainer; the man was a walking stereotype enough as it was, but his habit of referring to himself in the third-person betrayed any efforts he might have been making to conceal his identity. The Rolf he had told her about was utterly incapable of lying, anyway. He was much too kind. Stealthily, she scanned the room for anyone else who might fit one of the other descriptions he had given her. For all she knew, everyone from his old neighborhood might hang out here. Her search wasn't yielding any fruit though, so she quickly gave up.

If her assumption about the blonde's identity was spot on, then it stood to reason that Nazz would be just as invested in learning more about Saint's disappearance as she was. But how could she have known anything about that? Kevin didn't know anything about Saint's activities until she had arrived on his doorstep just a few hours ago. Could he have called her in the ten minutes it took her to go from the station to the restaurant? It was doubtful, but it might explain why Nazz was late. She'd have to do a little probing if she wanted any answers. And there was still the matter of the men that Nazz seemed to think that she, a total stranger, also happened to know about. Tabitha pinched her eyebrows together and started to raffle through the names of all the people Saint had told her about. Nazz, Kevin, and Rolf were already covered. That just left three people, and none of them seemed to be the Storm Rider sort.

Still, as she had just learned with Kevin, Saint's recollections were not peerless. His friend's had grown since he had last seen them, so she couldn't rule out the possibility that one or more of the three people she was thinking about were with him when the factory went up. As she pondered the possibilities more and more, she could feel a mental door slowly open up inside her brain. Just how long had it been since Saint had seen any of these people? Months? No, more like years, probably. His recollection about Kevin and his personality wasn't the least bit congruent with the man he was now, after all.

Tabitha followed Nazz's lead and quickly downed her own drink. What remained of her sandwich she left untouched, for now. For as delicious as it was, it would have to wait. She needed something to occupy her hands. Mindlessly, she started to play with her hair, though it was cut so short, she was having a difficult time getting her twist on. There would be no delicate way of broaching the subject. She'd just have to do what she did with Kevin, and spill her guts. She wasn't confident she had the patience to tell the same story twice, though, so before she got the ball rolling, she decided to test the waters.

"Pardon me if I'm mistaken, miss, but would your name happen to be Nazz?" The blonde waitress slowly nodded.

"You weren't looking me in the eye when you asked that, kiddo, so I'm gonna guess you aren't just looking at my tag out the corner of your eye and playing a prank on me?" tabitha nodded back politely.

"You seem to have a much better idea of what's going on than I do, Nazz, and since you're already so invested in eating lunch with me today, why don't we hang out for a bit and exchange some information?" Nazz scratched her head, confused by her guest's suddenly formal tone. Tabitha folded her hands and placed them in her lap. "If you don't mind, could you please go grab your friend with the ponytail? I feel like what I have to share with you is just as much Rolf's business as it is yours."