Sasha stared at Debbie.
Something in her brain sparked — like a fuse burning down to nothing.
"No," Sasha said, forcing the words through gritted teeth. "Not today."
Debbie raised an eyebrow, slowly lowering her phone. "Excuse me?"
Sasha took a step forward, her voice shaking — with anger, or exhaustion, she wasn't sure. "You're always not happy. And when you're not happy, I end up covered in dishwater, customers don't get plates, and Carla nearly has a stroke."
Luis peeked around the corner. "Uh oh."
Debbie crossed her arms. "If you have a problem, file a report."
Sasha laughed — the kind of laugh that had no humor in it. "You know what? Maybe I will."
She turned, storming past Luis toward the office.
Behind her, Debbie called out, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Some people just can't handle a real shift."
Sasha froze.
She turned slowly, walked back into the kitchen, and grabbed a soapy plate from the sink.
Not to throw it. Just to hold it. Breathe. Don't do something that gets you fired.
Luis whispered, "Plate down, Sasha. We can't afford jail."
Carla appeared — again — arms crossed, eyes cold.
"What is it this time?"
Sasha spoke first. "Debbie refuses to clear the dish drop. Again. Says she's not happy."
Carla looked at Debbie. "Is that true?"
Debbie shrugged. "I'm managing my stress. You told us to take care of our mental health."
Carla exhaled loudly. "I also told you both one more incident—"
"I know," Sasha snapped. "Liabilities."
Silence.
Luis said, "Maybe we all just quit and start a food truck."
Carla pointed to the break room. "Sasha. Ten-minute break. Now."
Sasha dropped the plate, walked out, not looking back.