Waffle quest

It was 5am, and I was about to fall asleep in the bed of a ’77 Chevy pick-up. For a few min­utes I was con­tent to look up and watch the stars spin. But instead, I con­vinced every­one to go to the Waf­fle House. Five miles, a ham­burg­er, dou­ble plate hash­browns scat­tered-cov­ered-and-smoth­ered, and one sun­rise lat­er, we made it back.
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