By 3:00 p.m., Sasha was operating on fumes.
The dish drop now resembled a miniature landfill. Plates stacked in every corner. Glasses balanced on top of each other like drunken acrobats. The prep counter was littered with used cutlery, and Luis had started serving meals on to-go containers.
"Improvisation is the mother of invention," he joked, sliding yet another omelette onto a paper plate.
Sasha didn't laugh.
She was now washing dishes herself, sleeves rolled up, hair matted with sweat, apron soaked. Every time she turned around, a new pile awaited.
A server peeked into the kitchen, holding a tray. "Where do I put these?"
Sasha barked, "Anywhere that isn't ON ME."
The girl vanished.
Luis shouted over the chaos, "You're doing great, Sasha! Only... three more hours of this!"
"Remind me why we don't stage a walkout?"
"Because Carla would hunt us down with that clipboard."
As if summoned by name, Manager Carla stormed in, face flushed, voice cutting through the kitchen like a cleaver.
"WHO is washing dishes?!"
Sasha froze. "Me."
"Where's Debbie?"
"Gone. Left early. Filed a 'wellness report.' Again."
Carla closed her eyes for two seconds too long. "That's the third time this month. Unbelievable."
She looked around — at the chaos, at the improvised plates, at Sasha's soaked apron.
"I'm logging this. I'll deal with both of you. But right now? Survive the shift."
Sasha bit her tongue. Barely.
At 5:00 p.m., the new dishwasher clocked in, took one look at the disaster, and muttered, "What happened here?"
Sasha handed him the sponge. "Ask Debbie. She left a legacy."
Luis chuckled. "You survived."
"Barely."
As Sasha clocked out, her feet aching, hands wrinkled from soap, she passed Debbie's empty locker.
She paused, staring at it. The thought crept in — two more days this week working with her.
And just like that, Sasha realized: This wasn't a bad day. This was normal.
She sighed, shook her head, and whispered,
"Someone's going to snap... and it might be me."