At this time of day, it was hard to believe that the old soda shop was still open and running.  Buster was one of a handful of customers – an elderly couple sat toward the back, by the kitchen order window, nursing the last of what was on their plates.  In the middle of the main dining room were two counters – one in a U-shape, ringed with chairs, and another on the right, lined with higher, spinning stools.  The whole place was done over in a simple decor of red Formica counter-tops and seat cushions, with the walls and tables left plain and unfinished.  Behind the second counter was an alcove that led to another, smaller dining room. ​

Because the Fountain was set at this particular corner of the parking garage, part of it was underground, putting the windowsill beside Buster's favorite table level with the sidewalk.  Unless people were a certain distance away, either on their way in from the Pursley Centre across the street, or heading for the entrance of the parking garage, he only saw them from the waist down.  That left speculation about the rest of them wide open, and he’d come to make a sort of game out of it: guessing as much as he could about the rest of a person from their lower half, and seeing how right he was when the upper half came into view.