The sky is still the wrong color when she pulls into the lot—violet rotting to gray, the kind of hour nobody claims.
The McDonald's crouches under its own light, a fishbowl of fluorescent quiet. She kills the engine, locks the bike, and walks through the automatic doors with her helmet under one arm and the pouch pressed flat in her pocket like a passport she'll never show.
She clocks in with a practiced swipe. The punch clock wheezes its approval. A coffee smell hangs low, sticky and old, riding the air vents like a ghost in a hairnet. The dining area is mostly empty: four bolted tables, three of them scarred with initials and key-scratches, one with a centerpiece of packeted ketchup tipping over like a drowned bouquet.
Outside, a truck idles, orange hazard lights beating time for a driver who prefers his radio to silence.
The kitchen glows. Heat lamps hum. The griddle sleeps under a sheen that's part oil, part memory. She cuts left, shoulders past the prep counter, and steps behind the register, where everything is beige except the touchscreen that stares back with bright blocks of color and cheerful commands.
Tissue boxes of napkins, a dispenser with straws that squeak, a receipt printer that coughs like an old smoker. She wipes the counter in those tight, economical circles you learn when the person paying you is also measuring your effort in per-second units.
Three years of mornings here have shaved her movements into something sleek. You learn where the jams happen, where the mat curls to trip you, which ice machine mood means a flood.
You learn that time here is a straight line you walk while other people cut across it—late commuters, construction crews, a pair of insomniacs who always look like they just lost at something important. You learn not to care, or to pretend you don't.
Footsteps tap up behind her; the new hire's shoes make that polite rubbery sound of someone trying to walk softer than they do. A passage of shampoo and freshly laundered polyester slips into her peripheral. A face in the reflection: young, eager, not yet filed down. Lucia taps the screen to wake it, watches the bright rectangle become an order matrix, a kind of stained-glass religion for the hungry and the rushed.
Her finger traces the login pad. The cash drawer slides open, metal teeth counting, then closes with a satisfying bite.
— "Hi! I'm—"
Lucia runs the morning procedures without looking up. Credit terminal test: beep. Receipt feed: pull; tear clean. Coin change: thumb the roll, drop a handful into the well.
The safe under the counter coughs once when she feeds it small bills. She ties her hair back, smooths her collar, pins the name tag in exactly the same crooked place because the hole is already there and she won't give this shirt another.
— "They told me I'd be with you this week, for training? I'm new. I… I replaced—"
The old coworker's name tries to surface.
She doesn't go fishing for it.
In her head, the faces are pegboard silhouettes: who showed up on time, who didn't; who stole sauce packets, who stole hours; who quit on a Tuesday and left their visor on a table like a molted skin. New girl's voice has the caramel edge of someone who's still excited by the idea of a schedule that knows her name.
Lucia's hand doesn't slow. She checks the pennies like a gambler fingering chips. She flicks the toggle beneath the register that powers the little bell nobody hears over the grill. The bell rings anyway. She lays out paper hats for the breakfast rush she can count on one hand. The fryer pops once, restless. The coffee machine exhales.
— "I'm supposed to ask you about the closing procedures, and about the coupons? Do we take the app ones or only the—"
She angles the screen, keys into the daily report, and taps through to a blank slate that will fill, line by line, with orders and refunds and the throb of tax that always takes more than it looks like.
The store's air-conditioning is set to an optimism the building can't fulfill, and the vents blow lukewarm on her cheek. She glances at the clock. 3:58. Two minutes of grace she doesn't believe in.
— "I like your rings," the new girl tries, the words landing softly, testing for a place to stick.
Lucia's rings answer with their small metallic chime against the cash drawer. The new girl takes the silence personally; they always do at first. Lucia knows there's kindness somewhere in her, but it's tucked away where it won't get docked. She positions the tip jar, already seeded with a sacrificial dollar, and turns the jar label so the smiley face faces the door. The door doesn't smile back.
The manager isn't in yet. He will arrive later with breath mints and a too-tight tie and a mood that depends on whether his car started on the first try. The grill hand is late, which means Lucia will cook the first orders with one elbow while the other rings them up. She rolls her shoulders once, a slow reset.
The parking lot blinks with headlights that mostly keep going.
— "So, um—good morning," the new girl says, gentler, trying to plant a flag on neutral ground.
Lucia presses the drawer in with her hip. The register chirps, ready to keep score of another day that will not count for anything except itself.
The door's chime gives its thin jingle as a man in a reflective vest steps in, blinking like he forgot daylight could be synthetic. Lucia lifts her chin toward him, the ritual greeting coiled and ready in her throat, a line she knows by heart and never believes.
— "Welcome in."
The man in the reflective vest smells like wet rope and diesel. He squints at the menu as if the prices might rearrange into better news. Lucia's fingers hover over the keypad, waiting for his mouth to decide before it does.
— "Coffee. Large. And, uh… sausage muffin."
— "Any sugar or cream?"
— "Two sugars. No cream."
— "Cash or card?"
— "Card."
The new girl edges into the pocket of Lucia's vision, a planet trying to orbit too close.
— "Do we clock out for breaks or is it automatic? And the coupons—do we scan first or last? They told me you'd—"
Lucia slides the card, taps the receipt, pivots. The grill is a mirror of last week and the week before: switch, hiss, a curl of steam lifting like something's soul. She drops the muffin parts with the economy of someone who counts gestures like they're on the payroll.
The coffee machine thrums; the cup fills to a brown line that never quite looks like morning. The new girl's words keep coming, a polite rain that doesn't watch where it falls.
— "I'm supposed to shadow, but Henry didn't answer my text, and I need to know the drawer count because—"
The sausage blisters. Lucia flips, assembles, wraps. It's a dance she could do blind, a slow-motion miracle performed under fluorescent confessionals. Tray. Napkin stack. Coffee lid clicks on with a small, final sound. She sets it down like she's landing a plane.
— "There you go."
— "Thanks."
— "Have a good one."
The vest disappears into the pale outside, hazard lights winking as he slides back into the cab. The chime hushes. The door closes its glass eyelid. The receipt tape twitches once and goes still.
Quiet folds the place back into itself—stools like mute question marks, ketchup shrine listing in the air-conditioned breeze. Probably the only customer until sunrise. That's why she chose this store—easy money in a hard world, a place where hours trickle instead of crash.
The new girl plants her elbows on the counter and mistakes silence for invitation.
— "So do we wipe the trays now or later? They told me different things on different days, and also what's the code for voiding if the card triple charges because my cousin said—"
— "Do you live far? I mean, how do you get here this early? My bus was late, I think the schedule online is wrong, and the app wouldn't—"
— "Are we allowed to take a hash brown if it breaks? Henry said not to, but Mel says everyone does and—"
Lucia leans her hip against the register and yawns into the crook of her arm, not bothering to hide it. The ceiling grid hums like it has a secret. The clock face on the wall stares without blinking.
She watches a moth throw itself into the plastic lens of a fluorescent tube, wings writing the same sentence again and again with no punctuation.
The new girl is still mid-weather report when Lucia's guilt shows up late but present, like a bus that finally decided to learn its route. She shifts her weight, eyes half-lidded, and lets a handful of answers leak through, thin and utilitarian.
— "Wipe as you go."
— "Ask the manager about voids."
— "Buses lie."
— "Broken food goes in the bin."
— "If the bin's full, break slower."
The new girl blinks, trying to translate. Lucia angles the tip jar so the Sharpie smile faces the door again, just in case the door changes its mind.
The parking lot sits there like a held breath. Somewhere in the back, the ice machine grumbles about its job and gets over it.
— "Okay… thanks," the new girl says, not quite sure whether she's been trained or dismissed.
Lucia taps the screen into standby and lets her eyes rest on the blank. The morning will come one coin at a time. The next customer will wander in eventually, or not.
She rolls a tight knot out of her shoulder and lets the building's hum fill the space where conversation might go.
The chime does not ring. The clock creeps. The coffee warms the air that doesn't need it. Lucia waits, a statue carved out of obligation and grease, and the new girl picks at a napkin edge like it owed her a confession.
Two hours drag their feet across the tiles. The dining room stays empty except for a yawning trucker who doesn't come in. The sky rinses itself from gray to the color of a cheap T-shirt. The new girl stands with her hands clasped behind her back like she's practicing being patient, but the energy keeps leaking out—foot tapping, napkin straightening, inventorying the ketchup shrine like it might tip over again if she looks away. Lucia doesn't mind quiet, but the girl's restlessness is noisy in its own way.
Lucia watches the clock blink 5:58, 6:09, 6:23. The new girl's eyes keep skimming the door as if a parade might break out of the asphalt. Lucia feels the apology rising like a bad flavor; she finally clears her throat.
— "What's your name?"
The girl lights up like she's been waiting for a permission slip.
— "Marina. Marina Alvarez. My friends call me Mari, or sometimes Rina, but mostly Marina. What's yours? Oh—right, Lucia. I saw your tag. I'm really bad at names, like really bad, but I'm going to remember yours because it's pretty. Do you mind if I ask questions? They told me to ask questions."
Lucia tucks a stray hair behind her ear and shrugs, which Marina reads as a green light.
— "How long have you been here?"
— "Three years."
— "Whoa. You like mornings?"
— "Like doesn't enter into it."
— "Right, yeah, totally. I mean, I like mornings in theory. I'm trying to be a morning person. The bus makes it hard. I'm from Hialeah—do you know Hialeah? Everyone says they know it but they mean they've driven past it. It's okay. My mom's there, my abuela too. We moved back after my parents split. Sorry—TMI?"
— "It's fine."
— "Cool, cool. So, what's the deal with the ice machine? Henry said it 'has moods.' Is that, like, a joke or a thing?"
— "Both."
— "Got it. And the fryer? Do I need a special glove? Mel said her cousin burned her wrist and they made her fill out a form and everything."
— "Use the tongs. Don't be dumb."
— "I will absolutely not be dumb. I promise. Do you bike here? I saw the helmet. That's brave. I tried biking once and a car door just—bam—opened and I was like, okay, I choose life. Your helmet's cool though. Kinda badass."
— "It's cracked."
— "Battle scar. Nice. So, where do you keep the extra syrup? The pancake syrup? I found one box but it looked ancient, like older than me. Does syrup expire? It has to, right?"
— "Back dry storage. Second shelf. Check the date."
— "Right, dates. Expiration. I worked at a bakery for like five minutes and they were all about dates. You ever worked anywhere else?"
— "Here's fine."
Marina bobs her head as if Lucia delivered a TED talk. The air conditioner coughs lukewarm onto their shoulders. Outside, a bus hisses and pulls away without unloading anyone. Marina spins a straw between her fingers like a drumstick, then remembers it's for customers and guiltily puts it back.
— "Do you get a lot of weirdos? Like, crazy stories? My cousin said the drive-thru at her store is like a zoo sometimes, but we don't even have a drive-thru here, so maybe it's calmer? It seems calm."
— "Calm enough."
— "I'm okay with calm. I talk a lot when it's calm. Sorry. I'll get used to it. Do you drink the coffee here or do you bring your own? I brought my own but then I felt rude, so I bought a small one and poured mine into it so it looks like—anyway. Henry won't care, right?"
— "He'll care about whatever he cares about that day."
— "Mystery box manager. Fun. Okay, sauces. What's your favorite? Don't say ketchup. That's cheating."
— "Hot mustard."
— "Bold choice. I respect that. I'm a sweet 'n sour girl, personally. It's like if candy pretended to be a vegetable. Do you have a family? I mean—everyone has a family. Do you live with them? You don't have to answer. I'm trying to be friendly and I sound like a census taker."
— "Sister."
— "Older? Younger?"
— "Younger."
— "Aw. That's nice. I'm the oldest. I have two little brothers who think Fortnite is a personality. Does your sister go to school around here?"
— "Yeah."
— "Is she cool? Like, do you two hang out?"
— "We… manage."
— "Gotcha. Siblings. Complicated. My mom says family is a plant—if you don't water it, it dies, but if you over-water it, it gets fungus. She's into metaphors. She works nights at a rehab center. She says the night shift makes your brain weird, like you start narrating your own life. Do you ever get that?"
— "Sometimes."
— "Same. I did a 2 AM cleanup once at the bakery and started pretending the mops were, like, characters. It was bleak. Do you ever get customers who tip? I heard morning people are stingy."
— "They're broke. Or late. Or both."
— "True. I'm always both. Do you want me to start the hash browns? For later? Or is that wasteful?"
— "Start two. Keep them hot, not crispy."
— "Yes, chef. Sorry. Not chef. Yes, Lucia."
She grins at her own joke and slides behind the prep counter like she's been waiting to be deputized. The hash browns whisper in the oil. The smell sharpens the room into something almost alive.
— "So what do you do for fun? Don't say sleep."
— "Nothing worth saying."
— "Mysterious. Okay. Music?"
— "Whatever's on."
— "C'mon, that's illegal. Everyone has a favorite song. Fine, we'll circle back. Movies?"
— "Mm."
— "You're killing me, Lucia."
— "You'll live."
Marina laughs, a quick brace of sound that makes the empty dining room look less like an abandoned stage. She checks the timer like it might flirt back, then glances at the door again. A jogger shadows past, doesn't come in. A gull lands on the roof and announces something rude.
— "Do you ever want to do something else?"
— "I'm already doing something else."
— "Like what?"
— "Another shift. Later."
— "Ohhh. Hustle. Respect. I want to save up for classes at Miami Dade. Maybe nursing. Or ultrasound tech. My aunt says they make decent money and nobody screams at you about extra ketchup at an ultrasound. That'd be nice. Do you—"
— "Flip the browns."
— "Right, right."
She flips them with ceremony, then plates them on the warming rack like medals.
— "You ever get migraines? I get these killer ones when the weather changes. My abuela says it's the barometer, like I have a tiny weatherman in my skull. Advil sometimes works. Coffee helps. You look like you power through everything. That's cool. Intense, but cool."
— "They pass."
— "Everything passes. That's what my mom says. She's big on sayings. Do you want a water? I'm gonna grab a water."
— "I'm good."
— "Okay. If you change your mind, I'll—sorry, I'll stop fussing. I just like fussing. It makes me feel useful. You're very… efficient. It's intimidating."
— "It's just practice."
— "Three years of practice. Wow. Do you know everyone's 'usual'? Like the guy with the vest—does he always get the sausage muffin? I want a file in my head, like a detective, but for breakfast."
— "He rotates to bacon on Fridays."
— "See! That's the kind of lore I mean. Teach me the lore."
— "Show up on Fridays."
The clock edges forward, minute by minute, a bored metronome. Marina keeps finding new questions in the lint trap of her brain; Lucia answers like she's skimming the headlines and not the articles. The sun finally decides to be a person and leans through the front glass, turning the napkin dispenser into a small lighthouse.
— "Do we ever get rushes?"
— "Sometimes a van."
— "Soccer kids?"
— "Roofers."
— "Roofers. Cool. Hard hats. Do they tip?"
— "Sometimes in advice."
— "Ha. Okay. Last question. For now. Maybe. What do you want me to do if someone comes in and they're… you know. Weird. Like, too chatty. Or mad. Or crying."
— "Ring them up. Keep it moving."
— "And if they won't move?"
— "Call the back. Or me."
— "Okay."
The clock blinks 6:59, then slips into 7:00 like it's crossing a border without papers. A car door thunks outside. Somewhere, a school bell rings for a school that's not this one. Lucia rubs her thumb over the edge of the counter until the laminate warms beneath her skin.
— "Marina."
— "Yeah?"
— "Can you cover the front a bit? I've got to pick up my sister."
— "Oh—yeah. Yeah, of course. Go. I've got it."