One Shift, One Night

The man, Gabriel, though I didn't know his name yet didn't look at his phone. He didn't pull out a laptop or a briefcase. He just sat there, his large hands wrapped around the thick cup of coffee I’d just poured. He looked at the steam rising from the cup as if it held a secret I didn't know, or at least a way to forget whatever was weighing him down. I should have moved away. I had salt shakers to fill and napkins to fold, but my feet remained glued to the floor behind the counter. The man had this energy about him. It was strong. It felt expensive. This energy made everything in the diner seem dull and unimportant. He stood out in a way that you will not help but notice him. "You’re staring," he said. He didn't look up, but the corner of his mouth went up a little bit. It wasn't a mean comment; it was an observation. "I’m waiting for the coffee to kick in," I shot back. "I need to make sure I don't have to call an ambulance for you. I’m too tired for the paperwork

The moments of that night didn't just fade. By the time six weeks had passed, the memory of the penthouse felt like a fever dream I’d had while sick with the flu. It didn't feel real. What felt real was the pile of "Final Notice" envelopes on the kitchen table and the way my stomach performed a slow, sickening roll every time I caught the scent of the diner’s fryer. I stood in the cramped bathroom of our apartment, the light flickering. It was 6:00 AM. Katherine was still asleep or at least, she was pretending to be so she didn't have to look at me. I looked down at the plastic stick sitting on the edge of the sink. I didn't want to pick it up. If I didn't look at it, maybe it wasn't true. Maybe I was just exhausted. Maybe the stress of the tuition was finally manifesting as a permanent case of the flu. But I knew. Deep in my bones, where the exhaustion lived, I already knew. I reached out, my fingers shaking so hard I nearly knocked the toothbrush holder over. I picked up the

4:00 PM~ I was already fuming when I left the Kane Plaza.. The tears had dried on my cheeks, leaving tight, itchy tracks that I scrubbed away with the sleeve of my sweater. I didn't look in the mirror. I already knew what was there: a girl who had sold her dignity for a single night, now forced to pay the price in blood, sweat, and secrecy. I had exactly 72 hours to find $2000. After that, Katherine's entire future would be destroyed by an automated email from the private school administration. The apartment was empty when I walked in. Track practice ran until five, a luxury Katherine took for granted because she didn't have to clock hours on a plastic punch card. I stood in the cramped kitchen, staring at the crumpled hundred-dollar bill Gabriel Kane had left on the counter like a token for a broken ride. It wasn't a tip. It was an insult. But right now, it was also five percent of what I needed to keep my sister from becoming like me. I pulled my old leather purse onto the tab

I walked out of the diner's back door into the narrow alleyway, the freezing air instantly hitting the hot skin of my face. One thousand dollars short. I had twelve hours left before the bank closed on Thursday afternoon, and my options had officially reached absolute zero. I walked back to the apartment, my mind completely numb, my feet moving on pure instinct. When I let myself in through the front door, the apartment was dark except for the small lamp on the kitchen table. Katherine was sitting there. She hadn't taken off her school uniform blazer, and her eyes were fixed entirely on the screen of her cheap smartphone. When she heard the door click, she looked up, her expression guarded, the sharp defensive lines around her mouth instantly tightening. "Well?" she asked, her voice carried a fragile, desperate edge that she tried to cover with her usual hostility. "Did you fix it? Or should I start packing my things into garbage bags tonight?" I walked over to the table,

We eventually moved to the North Side.On my final night at the diner, Lou didn't give me a retirement speech or a gold watch. He waited until 4:00 AM, when the neon sign was the only thing flickering in the dark, and slid a thick white envelope across the counter. Inside was eight hundred dollars in cash, a "bonus" he claimed came from an old tax rebate, though the handwritten note on the back in his messy script simply read: Keep your head up, Olson. I didn't cry until I reached the train station. Our new home was a small, third floor studio apartment located directly above a bakery on North Avenue. The air constantly smelled of yeast, burnt sugar, and industrial flour, a scent that finally replaced the pervasive grease trap odor that had defined my early twenties. It was tiny, the kitchen sink was three steps from our mattress but the windows faced an interior alleyway where nobody could look in. We were anonymous. We were invisible. By the time late June arrived, the Chicago h