America Runs On…

Every morning they come. Without fail. Some mill outside the front door, others smudge the front window with drool and greasy fingerprints. They aren’t looking to buy; they simply bump and bustle each other on the sidewalk. Some stare at the rusting coffee pots. Others, at the moldy, abandoned cinnamon rolls or jelly and chocolate-sprinkled donuts stacked on the racks behind the registers. Many form queues as though they are waiting to be rung up. Why do they come? No one knows, but it doesn’t comfort Mary Anne when she passes the undead gathering outside Dunkin’ Donuts at seven every morning.