Amid the buzz that surrounds this central Texas town, West remains West and takes care of its own.
A diner at Nors passes over his iPhone to say what he can't express himself. On the screen is a Facebook post from a man who grew up in West and wants others to know what the town means to him.
It's "the walking into bakeries that have been there for years and thinking their ancestors had waited on your ancestors," the man wrote. "It's going to the local grocery store to pick up two things and being able to go right to them because they've not moved in 20 years. ... It's the memories of the chief of police that would pull you over for speeding, chew you out while pointing his finger in your face and end it with a shuffling (of) your hair, a slap on the back and a 'love you boy.' ... There's a sense of 'home' you feel when taking the West exit, no matter where you're coming from, or how long you've been gone."
Around the corner and down Oak a short ways, Edward Havel sits in the back of his store -- his coffee pot full and ready to serve.