“299.”

“How do you know that?” Standing over the spilled various colored Skittles, a young girl asked. Blonde. Tightly braided pigtails trailed down her shoulders, tied in bows with a bright red ribbon. Her bib overalls were a little too big, the cuffs falling over her well-worn Chuck Taylors. On the front of the bib was a giant yellow embroidered sunflower, almost as big as her head.

“How?” the man asked. “I can count. I just do it.” The Skittles, now still after being broken out of the gumball machine standing next to the diner’s register, looked like a watercolor paintbrush’s swath. “I can also tell you how many of each color.”

“Cannot!” The girl stomped her feet, daring the man to do it. Several older people, retired folks who were there taking their time, reading the newspaper, broke out their mobile phones, snapping several pictures of various angles of the spill. Partly out of curiosity. But many simply wanted to know if this young man, barely old enough to drink, could count the colors and the total number of Skittles on the floor. No one in the diner dared breathe, waiting for him to document his tallies.

The young man smiled at the girl. In a minute or two, the answers would be revealed by someone other than himself. All he had to do was provide answers for the number of each color and the total number spilled before the count was finalized. And he already had that. “What’s your name, kid?”

“What do you care?” the young girl spat. “You can’t tell me the number of . . .” Before she finished her sentence, he spat out, “Yellow, 79. Red, 120. Green, 49. Purple, 27. Orange, not all that many. 24. Grand total of . . .” He paused, letting everyone present hang on the last few words. “299.”

Two servers picked up the candy, while a third sorted the various colors. The general manager of the diner, Doug, breathed through his mouth, leaning on the countertop. Sweat beaded across his forehead, which he dabbed with a rag he pulled from his apron. “Who’s gonna pay for all them thar Skittles? Can’t very well resell them suckers, what with all ya’ll touchin’ ‘em and shit.” Doug’s language was coarse, the same as when he served in the Navy. Didn’t matter who was in earshot. He used whatever words he wanted when he wanted. There was no such thing as tact in his speech.

“Got 27 purple.” A low murmur of voices came from the patrons watching the count. The server, a middle-aged woman with silverish-gray hair, eyed the crowd, laying eyes on Doug, her boss. Doug nodded toward the garbage can.

“Can’t resell ‘em, Dolores.” He rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted to be responsible for was a loss of candy, especially Skittles. The owner knew too well that if Doug could get away with eating some of the candy she paid for, he would. Candy, a name Doug thought was ironic for his sister-in-law, felt bad after Doug’s first heart attack. Doug’s cardiologist said he needed to slow down, so Candy, being a good person, thought he’d be perfect to run her diner. It was small, lowkey, low-stress, unlike working at Dino’s, a two-star restaurant in Chicago. Doug wasn’t high up on the chain, but high enough. The money afforded him the finer things. Even with his southern Texas accent, he was a pro at keeping Dino’s kitchen in check. Candy figured the diner would be easy for him. She was right.

“So? You got one right. You’ve got four more to go.” The girl stuck her hands into the overalls. Her mother, a well-dressed real estate agent, stood behind her, arms crossed. “Be nice, Emily,” her Mom whispered. Even though she was running late to a showing, she knew Emily needed to see if he was right. Emily’s Mom, Sara, divorced her Dad several years ago, easy to afford with the rising housing market. “Her name’s Emily,” she said to those closest to her, some of whom she sold their home or property.

The young man winked at Emily. “Pleased to meet you, Emily.” He extended her his hand, but she scowled, hands staying deep inside those overalls.

“Em! Don’t be rude. Shake his hand.”

“Mom? Do I have to?” Sara nodded at the girl, pushing her towards the young man. Sara wasn’t sure but felt like her little girl had a crush on the young man. She remembered being Em’s age, crushing on every cute young guy.

“I’m Chuck. Chuck Schroder.”

Sara blinked a few times, “Like Charlie Brown? Did your parents have a thing for Peanuts?”

He laughed. “Yeah, they did. I chose Chuck over Charles. Or Charlie. Sounded like a girl’s name.”

“Then it fits you,” Em spat.

“Yeah. Well.”

“120 red ones!” A cheer shot up through those patrons, bored enough to watch the counting continue.

“That’s only two, you know!” Em shouted. “He can’t get them all right.”

“We got 24 orange!”

“And 79 yellows!”

“One left to go, Emily. Think I can do it?” Chuck winked at Emily.

“No! It’s impossible!”

“Emily Rose! That’s enough out of you.” She scowled at Emily. Looking up at Chuck, she mouthed the words I’m so sorry. Chuck winked at her.

Side conversations were growing louder as the counting continued. Doug shouted, “Hey! Quiet down, ya’ll! Let ‘em count the damn things. Shit. Have some respect, ya’ll!”

The noise stopped. The only sound was the candies sliding across the floor. Dolores stood, watching Katherine count the last few pieces. “There are 49 greens.”

“NO!” Emily shouted, stomping on the black and white tiled floor. “I want a recount!”

“Yes. The girl’s right. We need a recount,” the older man leaning on his cane with the red MAGA hat stated. “Those waitresses did it wrong.”

“Servers,” Sara corrected.

The old man threw up his hands. “Make America great again! This,” he pointed to everyone standing in the diner, “is all a conspiracy!”

“What’s his problem?” Emily asked. She looked at him like he was a three-headed monster. “Fine. You win.” This time, she approached Chuck without hesitation, shaking his hand. “Mom always says if you lose, lose well. So. This is me losing well.”

“Emily, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Chuck?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me how you did it.”

“Well, Emily . . .”

“My name’s Em. Not Emily.” She rolled her eyes at her Mom.

“Fair enough, Em. I’m not entirely sure. What I know is I can see the numbers in my head, but only when I’m not thinking about it.”

“That’s kinda cool.”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Well. We need to be leaving. I’ve got pre-K, and Mom is late for an appointment. Bye, Chuck.”

“Bye, Em.”

“Chuck, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too.” She grabbed Emily by the hand and walked out of the diner.

Doug stood up and stretched his back. “Wait just a freakin’ minute. Who the fuck is gonna pay for these candies anyway?”