Abernathy is the landlord, the owner of the sixty-five shops spread across the six Buckhead blocks that fan out in all directions around us. A few years ago, in an effort to boost their business, Abernathy made us an offer we couldn’t refuse: free rein on a building in the center of the development and the first thirty-six months rent-free. Three years in one of the city’s most desirable locations where we haven’t paid a cent, not one single penny, of rent. It’s the only reason I’m still standing, because this place makes a killing.

Shit—made a killing.

“They’re going to have to work with us. No way I’m paying rent on this dump, and honestly, I have real doubts about reinvesting in a shop where I don’t own the building.”

Flavio frowns. “What are you saying exactly?”

“I’m saying maybe I should just take the insurance money and run.”

It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud, and releasing them loosens the noose around my neck. I inhale and think them again. Close up shop. Wave the white flag. The air is fresh and cool and it tingles the bottom of my lungs. What if this fire is the universe telling me it’s time? Walking away from this place, from Lasky Steak, it feels like the opposite of defeat.

I don’t miss the flash of distress on Flavio’s face. “Are you serious right now? You’re actually considering shuttering your best shop?”

“Well, yeah. Because sorry, man, but do the math. If we’re lucky, insurance will pay enough for a kitchen reno, to fix up the ceiling and install fire-retardant noise absorption panels like I should have done the first time, to slap on some paint and buy some new tables and chairs. It’ll be months before you and I are drawing a salary again.”

Flavio’s expression is an elbow to the gut, and it floods me with guilt. He and his wife have one kid in college and another starting next year. He needs the income this place generates as much as I do. I’m an asshole for ever hiring him.

A muffled ring sounds from deep in his pocket. He digs his cell out and waves the screen my way—the insurance company—and I gesture for him to answer.

He wanders off to the front of the shop, phone pressed to his ear, and I turn back to the burn pattern on the wall. I stare at the markings, sooty footprints from the flames that curled up and over the edge into the dining room.