Chapter 7

The snow had finally started to fall, small, hard crystals of white that stung my face as I walked blindly down Western Avenue. No one would care about a twenty-six-year-old girl with two embryos in her belly and an empty bank account.

As I reached the corner of our street, I saw the glowing neon sign of 'The Silver Spoon diner' humming in the distance. It was the only place that had ever consistently given me a roof over my head, even if that roof smelled like oil and old coffee.

I knew what I had to do next, and it was going to cost me the very last shred of my pride. I had to ask Lou for a cash advance on my next three months of floor-cleaning shifts.

Lou wasn't a soft man. He was a retired line cook from the Navy who ran his kitchen like a torpedo boat, and he looked at every employee as a gear in a machine.

I pushed open the heavy glass door of the diner and the bell above the door brought Lou’s heavy, scarred face around from the grill station.

"Olson?" he grunted, throwing a handful of sliced onions onto the hot iron flat-top. "You’re not scheduled until eleven tonight. What are you doing here? You lose your keys again?"

"Lou," I said, walking straight down the length of the counter until I was standing directly across from his station. I didn't take off my heavy jacket. I needed the weight of it to keep from visibly shaking.

"I need to talk to you in the back office. Please. Just for five minutes."

Lou stopped his spatula mid-air. He looked at my face, his small, dark eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

He knew me. He knew I didn't come in early, and he knew I never asked to go into the back office unless something was broken.

He turned to the high-school kid working the fryer station. "Bobby, watch the flat-top. Don't let the onions char."

He wiped his thick hands on his white apron and nodded toward the narrow wooden door behind the kitchen. I followed him into the tiny, windowless room that served as the nerve center of 'The Silver Spoon'.

A single bare bulb hung from a frayed black cord, casting long, harsh shadows across the metal filing cabinets.

Lou sat down behind his small metal desk, the springs of his ancient swivel chair groaning loudly in protest. He didn't invite me to sit. There wasn't another chair.

"Alright, Olson," he said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket before remembering the city health codes and shoving them back in. "Spit it out. You look like you’re about to faint, and I can't afford a worker's comp claim on the night shift."

I locked my fingers together tightly inside my jacket pockets. "I need an advance on my salary, Lou. Two thousand dollars. You can take fifty percent of my check every single week until it’s cleared. I’ll work every holiday, every weekend, every double floor-scrubbing shift you have open. I won't complain once. I just... I need it by tomorrow morning."

The tiny office went completely silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the massive walk-in freezer through the back wall. Lou didn't move for a long time. He just sat there, his thick fingers tapping a slow, agonizing pattern against the metal desk.

"Two grand," he finally said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register.

"That’s a lot, Lyra."

"I know," I whispered, the skin on my face tightening. "I know exactly how much it is. But it's for Katherine’s school. They're going to expel her before midterms if I don't clear the past-due balance. I don't have anywhere else to go, Lou. Nobody else will look at me."

Lou let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He looked down at his desk, his eyes resting on the old wooden paperweight his father had given him.

"Lyra, listen to me," he said, and for the first time in four years, his voice didn't carry that hard, military bark. It sounded old. "You're a good kid. You're the best worker I've got on the floor, and God knows you've taken more crap from the 2:00 AM crowd than anyone should have to bear. But I don't have two thousand dollars in liquid cash to float an employee advance."

"Lou, please—"

"Let me finish," he cut me off, raising a thick hand.

"The diner isn't the goldmine people think it is. The corporate food distributors raised the price of beef and shortening twenty percent last month, and my property taxes on this corner went through the roof in October. I’m barely clearing the payroll tax for the high school kids as it is. If I pull two grand out of the operating register right now, the food truck doesn't unload on Tuesday morning, and the doors stay locked."

"There's no one else," I said. "If she gets kicked out of that school, she’s going to end up exactly like me. She’s going to be stuck behind a counter forever, Lou. I can’t let that happen to her."

Lou looked at me for a long, heavy moment. He saw the desperation in my eyes. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out an old leather checkbook, and flipped it open.

"I can't do two grand," he said, his pen scratching harshly against the paper.

"But I can do five hundred from my personal emergency savings. It’s a loan, Olson. No interest, but I’m taking fifty bucks out of your tips every week starting tonight. That’s the absolute edge of what I can do without my own wife clearing out my closet."

He ripped the check out and slid it across the desk.

I looked down at the white paper. Five hundred dollars. Combined with my savings and my cash, I was at one thousand dollars. I was exactly halfway.

"Thank you, Lou," I choked out, my fingers wrapping around the check like it was a lifeline. "I'll be on the floor by ten-thirty. I'll prep the stations early."

"Just clean up your face before you put the apron on," he muttered, turning back to his ledger sheets. "The customers want syrup with their waffles, not drama."