Chapter Four (Libby)

I wake up to silence.

No alarm.

No blaring reminder.

Just the soft, terrifying quiet that tells me I’ve already screwed up. My eyes snap open, and I grab my phone off the nightstand.

7:42.

“Oh my God.”

I bolt upright so fast the room tilts. My heart is already racing, panic flooding my veins as I throw the blanket off and stumble out of bed. Emma has to be at school by eight-thirty. I have to be at the diner by nine.

I’m already late.

“Emma!” I call, yanking open my dresser drawer. “Emma, we’re late—up, now!”

No response. Of course. I drag on clean-ish jeans, tug a shirt over my head, and shove my feet into shoes without socks. My hair gets twisted into a messy knot that barely holds. No makeup. No time. I rush into the living room, already bracing myself.

Emma is still on the couch. In the same clothes as yesterday. Sprawled upside down, watching cartoons like the world isn’t actively on fire.

“Emma,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

She looks at me like this is brand-new information. “I am dressed.”

“You’re wearing yesterday’s clothes.”

“They’re still good.”

I close my eyes and inhale through my nose. “You need to get changed. Now. Please.”

She groans, rolling onto her stomach. “I will in a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute.”

She ignores me. I grab her backpack to start shoving things inside and freeze when I see the spiral notebook sticking out. I pull it free, flipping it open.

Half the page is blank.

My chest tightens.

The memory hits me all at once—the couch, her warmth against my side, the way sleep took me without asking. I never checked. I never made sure.

I swallow hard, blinking fast.

I’m failing her.

The thought is sharp and immediate, like it’s been waiting just beneath the surface. I shove it down because I don’t have time to break right now.

“Emma,” I say again, softer this time. “Go change. For real.”

She groans like I’ve asked her to climb a mountain but finally slides off the couch and trudges down the hallway.

I stuff the unfinished homework into her backpack, zipping it closed like that somehow fixes things. I’ll email her teacher. I will. Ask for more time. Explain. Apologize. Again.

Emma comes back out five minutes later.

I stare.

She’s wearing striped leggings, a glittery unicorn shirt, two different socks, and a winter scarf. In Florida. With flip-flops.

“Emma.”

“What?”

“You—” I stop myself, glancing at the clock. 8:18. “Never mind. Grab your backpack.”

She grins like she’s won. The drive to school is a blur of red lights and tight breaths. I drop her off, kiss her forehead, tell her I love her, and drive away already late for work, my stomach twisted into knots.

When I rush into the diner, my boss is waiting by the counter, arms crossed.

“You’re twenty-five minutes late,” she says flatly.

“I’m so sorry,” I say immediately. “I overslept. My sister—school—this won’t happen again, I swear.”

She watches me for a long moment. Then sighs. “This is your last warning.”

My throat tightens. “I understand.”

I tie my apron on with shaking hands, nodding like I’ve got it under control.

I don’t.

But I step behind the counter anyway—because I don’t have a choice.

***

By hour ten, my feet don’t feel like feet anymore.

They’re just pain. It’s a hot, pulsing, constant—radiating up through my calves every time I pivot around the counter type of pain. My apron is stained with coffee, syrup, and something I don’t even remember spilling. My smile feels stapled on, my voice raw from apologizing for things that aren’t my fault.

The shift has been a disaster from the jump.

The first customer snaps at me because the coffee is “too weak,” even though I watched him dump half a cup of creamer into it. The next one sends their eggs back twice. Someone knocks over a full soda, and it explodes across the floor like it’s been waiting for the chance. I grab the mop, clean it up, slip anyway, catch myself on the counter hard enough to bruise.

Then—because of course—someone burns something in the kitchen.

Not a big fire. Just enough smoke to set off the alarm and send everyone into a dramatic panic while I stand there waving a towel like that’s going to fix anything. My heart pounds for a solid ten minutes afterward, adrenaline crashing hard.

By hour twelve, the diner finally goes quiet.

No more orders. No more bells. Just the hum of the fridge and the low ache in my bones. I sink into one of the vinyl chairs at a corner booth, elbows on the table, hands clasped tight.

I breathe in.

Out.

In.

Out.

I don’t cry. I want to. God, I want to. But I don’t. Crying takes energy I don’t have.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I almost ignore it.

Instead, I pull it out and see a text from Emma’s babysitter.

Hey! Emma’s all settled in for bed. She mentioned something about homework and her teacher being upset. Just wanted to give you a heads up.

My stomach drops.

The email.

I never sent it.

I told myself I would. I meant to. I thought about it three separate times today—once while refilling coffee, once while mopping the floor, once while scrubbing soot off the counter after the fire.

And then I didn’t.

That’s when it hits.

Not the customers.

Not the spills.

Not the fire.

This.

One small tear slips free before I can stop it, landing on the table. I swipe it away immediately, like it doesn’t get to exist. Like I don’t get to fall apart over something so small.

I’ll email the teacher tomorrow. First thing. I will. I always do eventually.

I stand, legs shaking slightly, and grab my keys. I lock up the diner, turning off the lights one by one until the place goes dark.

Another day survived. Barely.