Sasha sat on a milk crate outside the back door, the alley filled with the low hum of traffic and the sour smell of old grease.
She stared at her hands — red, damp, shaking.
She'd almost thrown that plate.
Over dishes. Over Debbie. Over this whole job that paid just enough to keep her stuck.
Her phone buzzed — a message from a job app she forgot she'd signed up for.
"New positions open: receptionist, data entry, no weekends."
Sasha stared at it, thumb hovering.
Then the door creaked open.
Luis peeked out. "It's safe. Nobody's been stabbed."
Sasha chuckled bitterly. "Yet."
He sat beside her, silent for a beat.
"You know Carla's calling a meeting, right?"
Sasha sighed. "Am I getting fired?"
Luis shrugged. "I dunno. You didn't throw the plate. That's a win."
She didn't laugh.
Luis added, "Debbie's not as invincible as she thinks."
Sasha shook her head. "She doesn't care. That's her power. I care too much."
Luis stood. "Ten minutes are up. Come on. Let's see what fate awaits."
Back inside, Carla waited in the office, arms crossed.
Sasha entered. Debbie was already seated, arms folded, lips tight.
Carla didn't bother with greetings.
"I've logged every incident. Every walk-out, every glass broken, every complaint."
She looked at Sasha. "You're not the problem."
Then at Debbie. "You're also not the solution."
Debbie frowned. "What does that mean?"
Carla leaned forward. "It means this isn't working. Tomorrow, only one of you comes back. The other? Off the schedule."
Sasha stared. Debbie stared.
No one spoke.