Carla stared at Debbie like she hadn't heard right.
"Not happy?" she echoed. "What does that have to do with anything?"
Debbie shrugged, as if Carla had asked about the weather. "Mental health, Carla. Self-care. It's important."
Carla's face twitched. "You are at work. You're on the clock. I need dishes washed, not therapy quotes."
Sasha jumped in, waving her tray toward the mess. "We can't even drop plates anymore! Debbie refuses to clear her station, and now the entire kitchen is a—"
CRASH.
A tray of glasses slid off the edge of the overloaded dish drop and shattered spectacularly on the tile floor. A couple servers screamed. One slipped, barely catching herself on the counter.
Carla stood frozen for a moment, her eyes wide, chest rising with slow, angry breaths.
Luis appeared, arms raised. "Okay! Okay! Nobody's dead. Just glass casualties."
Carla raised a hand to silence him.
She turned back to Debbie, voice low, firm.
"You're off the floor. Now."
Debbie's eyes narrowed. "You're sending me home?"
"I'm writing you up. You've created a hazard."
Debbie pulled off her gloves, slowly. "You're picking favorites again."
Sasha's jaw dropped. "Are you serious?!"
Debbie pointed. "She's always dumping dishes crooked. Stacks them like Jenga. That glass broke because she doesn't know how to drop a tray."
Luis whispered to Sasha, "I mean, that was a pretty bad stack."
"Not helping, Luis!"
Carla stepped between them. "Enough! Debbie, out. Go sign out. Now."
Debbie looked smug. "Fine. I was leaving anyway."
Ten minutes later, Debbie was gone. Again.
The dish drop remained a disaster, the floor sticky with cleaning solution, and Sasha now had to scrub plates — again.
Carla stood nearby, scribbling in her notepad, muttering about write-ups and liability.
Sasha muttered to herself, "I swear, if that woman shows up tomorrow, I'm quitting."
Luis passed by, dropping another stack of dirty plates next to her.
"Think of it this way," he said. "It builds character."
Sasha threw a soapy sponge at him.