Hugh

The neon glow of "Rosie's Diner" painted shimmering streaks across the wet asphalt of Harmony Creek. Inside, the air hung thick with the aroma of frying bacon and stale coffee, a symphony of scents Hugh Doran found surprisingly comforting. He leaned back against the cracked vinyl of his booth, a half-eaten stack of pancakes growing cold before him. Harmony Creek, population barely scraping four thousand, was his latest stop on his aimless wanderings. It was quiet, unremarkable, and desperately in need of a good invention or two.He idly tinkered with the small device he'd pulled from his pocket - a glorified paperclip jury-rigged to amplify radio signals. Boredom, as always, was the mother of invention. Then you walked in.