“This customer wants to use this coupon.” I handed the flimsy, faded paper over.

“I’m sorry about the inconvenience, sir.” Tyrell punched his manager’s code into my register, taking half off the meal. “Go grab his order, Del.”

“Yeah, go grab my order, lil’ man.” He paid his $6.50 with a fifty he peeled from a thick wad of bills. I turned away to meet Stu the Cook at the counter between the kitchen and the front line.

When the food was claimed, and Weed-Douche bopped out with World Champ swagger, I waited for Tyrell to give his usual spiel. “Customer’s always right, Del.”

“Except when they’re wrong. Dude cheated us.”

“True. He seemed like a troublemaker though. What do we not want in our restaurant?”

He wanted me to say trouble. I said, “Roaches. Might be too late, though.”

Stu cackled, but my other coworker gave a slow headshake from her post in the drive-thru hutch, then went about polishing up the Coke machine with a damp cloth.

Mya Hanson had made the transition from First Missionary Holy Youth to Fish Flinger same as me. A FISHto’s uniform was not flattering, and Mya didn’t put any effort into enhancing the look. Her shirt was a size too large, her pants too baggy and dusty with batter. I mean it was the same deal with my uniform, but she’s a girl. Don’t get me started on that sloppy ponytail sticking through the back of her signature Monte cap. In church you could tell she tried a little. Here? I don’t know. To each his, or her, own. I guessed.

Our shifts often aligned because we had the same school (and now church) schedule. We never talked much, despite all that overlap. She was a nose-to-the-grindstone, on-to-the-next-task kind of person. Killing herself like she didn’t recognize FISHto’s for the joke that it was.

Tyrell disappeared to the back, doing whatever the manager of an unappetizing Long John Silver’s knockoff did, leaving Stu, Mya, and me to our respective stations.

Except Mya crossed the imaginary border between drive-thru and front line, wiping crumbs off a counter that was technically my responsibility. I never felt possessive of FISHto squalor until that moment. Well, maybe possessive was the wrong word. Judged?

Quickly, I snatched a clean cloth from a bin on the wall, soaked it in the nearby sink, then began scrubbing the opposite end of the counter while eyeing her. “I was going to get that, you know.”

“It’s slow right now. So we help each other.”

It’s always slow at FISHto’s, and I’d never helped on her station. Something was off here.

Mya Hanson was—how to say this? Like the out-of-focus ghost in the background of a quiet horror movie. There, but not. I mostly only ever saw her out the corner of my eye.

With a second dry rag she produced from her apron pocket, she went back over the streaks she’d left on the counter, buffing the tiles to a glossy shine, really exercising attention to detail while working closer to me. I was focused on her, barely paying attention where and how I dragged my sloppy wet cloth. “There’s something you want to say, Mya. I can tell.”