Yes, There be dragons. But at Waffle House?

Margaret should have gone home. That was the plan. Go home, sit down, drink coffee, and figure out how a dragon had entered her life through a closet. Instead, she found herself pulling into the parking lot of a Waffle House with a damp, slightly smoky dragon sitting in a laundry basket in the passenger seat.

Arthur was wrapped in the fireproof blanket like a very content burrito. He looked up at the sign with real interest, squinting slightly as he read it out loud.

“Waffle House,” he said. “That sounds… important.”

“It’s not important,” Margaret said. “It’s eggs and bad decisions.”

“It feels important,” he said, still staring at the sign like it might reveal something deeper.

Margaret turned off the car and looked at him. “You stay in the basket. You stay quiet. And you do not breathe fire.”

“I can absolutely stay in the basket,” Arthur said confidently. “Quiet is a bit more situational, but I will try.”

“That is not reassuring.”

Inside, the place smelled like coffee, grease, and a long history of people making questionable choices at odd hours. A man at the counter stared blankly into space. The cook worked the grill with practiced focus. Nobody looked like they would be surprised by anything, which Margaret found both comforting and concerning.

She slid into a booth in the corner and set the basket beside her. Arthur slowly lifted himself up just enough to see over the edge. His eyes widened immediately.

“Oh wow.”

“No wow,” Margaret said without looking at him.

“There’s fire,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Open fire.”

“Controlled fire.”

Arthur watched the grill like it was a live performance. “He’s very good,” he said, nodding with quiet respect. “I like him.”

“You are not speaking to him.”

“I’m not going to speak to him.”

The waitress appeared beside them. “What can I get y’all.”

Margaret smiled in a way that felt tight and unnatural. “Coffee. Eggs. Toast. Hash browns.”

The waitress nodded and started writing.

“And another order of hash browns,” Arthur added, just loud enough.

Margaret closed her eyes. “…yes. Two orders of hash browns.”

The waitress didn’t react. She just nodded and walked away like this was well within the range of things she had already seen today.

Arthur dropped back into the basket, then popped up again almost immediately. “What are hash browns?”

“Potatoes,” Margaret said.

He froze. “Fried?”

“Yes.”

Arthur leaned back slowly, clearly overwhelmed. “This is a very good place.”

The food came quickly. Margaret slid one plate toward herself and pushed the other closer to the basket. Arthur climbed up, resting his front claws on the edge, and stared down at the hash browns like he had just discovered religion.

“Oh my God,” he said softly.

“Quiet,” Margaret said.

He took a bite. His eyes closed. A small, happy puff of flame slipped out of his nose and curled harmlessly into the blanket.

“Oh that’s exceptional,” he said.

“Less fire.”

“I’m expressing joy.”

“Express it internally.”

He didn’t. He just kept eating, faster now, like he had decided there might be consequences if he didn’t finish everything immediately. Margaret sipped her coffee and tried, for a brief moment, to pretend this was normal.

Then Arthur looked at the grill.

She didn’t even need to turn her head. She could feel it.

“No,” she said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to.”

“They’re doing it wrong.”

“They are not doing it wrong.”

“They are absolutely doing it wrong.”

Margaret set her coffee down slowly and looked at him. “You stay in the basket.”

“I am in the basket.”

“You stay in the basket.”

“I feel like there’s a lack of trust here.”

“There is a complete lack of trust.”

Arthur climbed out of the basket anyway.

“Arthur.”

“I’m just going to observe.”

“No, you’re not.”

He trotted toward the counter with the confidence of someone who had never been told no in a way that stuck. Margaret followed, already knowing how this would end and hating that she was right.

Arthur stood up on his back legs and leaned onto the counter. “Excuse me, sir,” he said politely.

The cook didn’t respond at first. Arthur cleared his throat. “Sir.”

The cook turned.

There was a pause. A long one.

He looked at the dragon. Then at Margaret. Then back at the dragon.

Margaret stood perfectly still, like if she didn’t move, this might not be happening.

Arthur smiled. “Your heat distribution is inconsistent.”

Margaret covered her face with one hand. “We’re leaving.”

Arthur gestured toward the grill. “You’ve got a hot spot here and a dead zone over there. It’s a classic issue.”

The cook slowly set his spatula down.

Arthur took a small breath in, clearly preparing to demonstrate.

Margaret lunged.

Too late.

A short, enthusiastic burst of flame rolled across the surface of the grill. There was a loud whoosh as grease flared up, eggs hissed, and someone at the counter shouted something that sounded like a combination of fear and disbelief.

Arthur stepped back, pleased. “There we go. Even heat.”

Margaret grabbed him immediately, lifting him off the counter and tucking him under her arm. “We are leaving.”

“He’s going to thank me,” Arthur said, twisting around to look back at the grill.

“He is not going to thank you.”

She threw cash on the table as she passed, grabbed the basket, and moved quickly toward the door. Behind them, the cook was still staring at the grill like he was trying to decide if this had actually just happened.

Outside, Margaret shoved Arthur back into the basket and slammed the car door. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Arthur blinked up at her. “…the hash browns were life-changing.”

Margaret started the car. “You are banned from restaurants.”

“That feels harsh.”

“You set a Waffle House on fire.”

“I improved a Waffle House.”

Margaret pulled out of the lot without responding. Arthur settled back into the blanket, completely content with how the morning had gone.

After a moment, he looked up again.

“…do you think they’d let me train their staff.”