By noon, the restaurant was packed.
Families, tourists, and regulars crowded into booths and bar seats, menus flipping, drinks clinking, kids wailing, and the air filled with the chorus of orders shouted and half-heard.
Sasha darted between tables, a tray balanced on one hand, fake smile pasted on like war paint.
"Here's your water, sir. And your burger's coming right—" she slipped slightly on a damp spot near the kitchen door. "—up."
The customer barely noticed, engrossed in his phone.
She slid into the kitchen, dumped the used napkins and half-finished drinks onto the dish drop.
Still full.
Still untouched.
Debbie was gone.
"Luis, where's Debbie?"
Luis didn't look up from the sizzling skillet. "Said she went to the back freezer for a 'mental health break.' Left about ten minutes ago."
Sasha's jaw clenched. She pushed open the backroom door and found Debbie sitting on an upturned milk crate, eyes closed, breathing dramatically like a yoga instructor at war.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Debbie opened one eye. "Do I come to your tables and tell you how to carry plates?"
"You've abandoned the dish drop! I have nowhere to put dirty dishes, the cooks have no clean ones, and Carla's already sharpening her managerial axe."
Debbie stood slowly, deliberately, stretching like she had all the time in the world. "I'm not happy, Sasha. And working while I'm not happy is... counterproductive."
Sasha stepped closer, voice low. "We've all got issues, Debbie. But we're paid to work, not to meditate on crates."
Debbie tilted her head. "Then you're welcome to pick up a sponge. Let's see how long your manicure lasts."
Sasha's fists balled. "I swear—"
The kitchen door burst open. Carla stomped in, holding a plate with food sliding off the edge.
"This was returned. Wrong order. Again. Sasha, fix it."
Luis peeked in. "Might help if I had clean plates. Just saying."
Debbie smiled, serene. "You see? When I'm not happy... no one's happy."
The rest of the shift was a blur of chaos.
Sasha juggled tables while dishes stacked dangerously high. Luis had to wash two pans by hand to keep up. Carla nearly slipped on a fallen cup. A customer complained their drink had a lipstick stain — Sasha nearly exploded.
By 2:45 p.m., Sasha returned to the dish drop — to find Debbie signing out early.
"You're leaving? Your shift ends at 4!"
Debbie didn't look back. "I'm not happy. Filing a wellness report. See you tomorrow — maybe."
She vanished out the door.
Sasha stood there, surrounded by dirty dishes, hot pans, angry cooks, and no dishwasher.
She muttered, "I'm gonna lose it."
Luis handed her a sponge. "Welcome to the dark side."
Sasha stared at the overflowing dish drop, the sponge now cold and wet in her hand. She took a long, deep breath — the kind that burned — and looked around at the battlefield that was her workplace.
A server passed by, muttering, "No clean forks again?"
Sasha didn't answer.
Somewhere in the background, a timer beeped, a baby screamed, and a cup shattered.
She whispered to no one in particular, "I don't get paid enough for this."
And then, gripping the sponge like a weapon, she dove into the mess — because quitting wasn't an option.
Not yet.