Dad grips the steering wheel, sweat beading on his brow as the family’s small RV jolts over potholes. Mom peers out the window, shielding her eyes from the glare. Child One sprawls dramatically across the back seat, clutching their stomach. "I am hungry, Dad! I might not make it," "Okay, we’ll stop at the next diner!" Dad nods, determination in his tired eyes.

Dad leads the group toward the entrance, the kids humming along with the Elvis tune triggered by the door sensor. Inside, the walls are plastered with gold records, velvet paintings of Elvis, and faded photos with celebrities of another era. Waitress, a cheerful young woman in a retro uniform, greets them with a grin. "What can I get y’all?"

The family debates, bickers, and finally settles on an order: three Heartstopper Burgers, fries, and large milkshakes. The kids clamor for “hound dogs” and shout about no onions. "Is that everything?" "Yes, that’s all, but what is this place called? It’s not on our RV sat-nav!" "This old place? We’re called Suspicious Minds. Our steakhouse chef, Elvis, will be cooking for you. Hope y’all enjoy," she chirps, glancing toward the open kitchen.

Elvis[/@ch_4], an aging man with slicked-back peppered hair, gold rings, and a stained apron, flips burgers with practiced flair. Smoke curls from a cigarette balanced on his lip.] Dad and Mom whisper, scanning the memorabilia on the walls. "Do you think it’s the real Elvis?" "We’re bound to see hundreds of Elvis impersonators out here," but doubt flickers in his eyes. Child Two squints at Elvis behind the counter. "Should he be smoking indoors?" [@ch_6]Child Three[/@ch_6_d]"This is America; you can do anything,"[/@ch_6_d] comes the reply.

Waitress[/@ch_5], overhearing their whispers, saunters over with a knowing wink.] "Yes, that’s the King, all right. Been here since the '70s. Still got musical magic! Want to meet him?" "No, thank you," Dad mumbles, but Mom nearly leaps from her seat. "Oh, yes, please!" "King, we got visitors from outta town want to say hi!" she hollers. Elvis swaggers over, wiping his hands, a half-smile curling under his sideburns. "Where y’all from?" "England. A little island just off Europe," "Uh huh, I know it well. Had a stopover at Prestwick Airport in ’60. Was greeted by the Queen’s sister, Princess Margaret. Had a night to remember, and that’s how I became the King, uh huh!" Child One tugs Mom’s sleeve. "Who is Elvis?"

Elvis[/@ch_4] pulls out a battered guitar from behind the counter. He strums the opening chords, his voice unexpectedly rich and soulful as he launches into a sweeping ballad, telling the story of his escape from fame, his “death,” and his arrival at this unlikely desert sanctuary.] The diner falls silent, every eye fixed on Elvis as memories flicker in the dim glow of neon. "Wow, you are the real Elvis! How, why, where—?" "After ’76, I was silenced by aliens. Live here or never be reincarnated. So I chose this place. How do you like my home?" "It’s a beautiful home," Mom whispers, awe in her voice.

Dad[/@ch_1] tells his story to a theater producer, who sits forward, eyes wide.] Producer, captivated, taps a pen against a notepad. "You know, Pete, I believe you! And I think many others will too. Let’s make the play. We’ll call it ‘Steakhouse Elvis.’" The curtain falls over an image of Elvis in the diner, watching a stage production of his own legend, a wry smile on his lips as the neon sign outside flickers into the night.