The gap between us closed to whisper-distance. She did this exaggerated glance toward the back like we were coconspirators. Stu was the only possible witness, and he had his chin propped in his hand, dozing. A dangerous thing to do over the hot grill, but he’d beaten the odds so far.

Mya, hushed, but excited, said, “Purity Pledge!”

“What about it?”

“We’re doing it!” Her brown cheeks turned rosy. “I don’t mean doing IT. Obviously. We’re on the same journey.”

That’s what she wanted to talk about?

With the Mya mystery solved, I abandoned counter cleaning completely, shooting my rag toward the sink like a Steph Curry three-pointer. The wet cloth smacked the floor about a foot short of the basin. Mya flinched at my horrible miss.

“I didn’t warm up.” I rotated my shoulder, wincing like I might be injured. “Go on. Purity Pledge.”

“I don’t know if you know this, but me and my mother are part of the First Missionary Welcome Committee.”

I did. Mrs. Hanson had been cozying up to Mom about us transitioning from frequent visitors to official church members. My mother was one of those use-the-entire-trial-period kind of people, so she was taking her time on the decision. “That keep you busy?” I said.

“Not exactly. There aren’t a ton of new people coming to our church.”

I nodded, well aware.

“As someone with a mandate of making all who step through the church doors feel a part of something bigger than themselves, I was very happy to see you so eager to be a part of PP . . .” Her voice trailed off, a weird hesitation. “. . . though, I do have a question.”

“Okay.”

“I was . . . under the impression . . . that you weren’t exactly,” she did another glance toward the back, embarrassed to look me in the eye, “pure?”

“What?”

Her voice sped up. “Not that I’m criticizing. But, I mean, don’t you have a sort of reputation?”

I had no response. I was still processing the Purity Pledge thing myself, and Mya Hanson was vetting my virginity?

The door chimed before I could formulate a solid answer. When I saw who it was, I felt saved.

“I’m going on break,” I said to no one in particular.

But saying “break” was like saying “Voldemort”—Tyrell appeared from the back in a cloud of Trout Breading. “Company policy says employees have to work a minimum of three hours before taking a maximum of fifteen minutes’ rest, and by my count—”

“Or,” said Qwan, my best friend, and former Monte FISHto’s coworker, “you could pass him the mop and let him improve these dirty-ass floors.”

Tyrell waggled a finger Qwan’s way. “You’re not even supposed to be in here. Thief!”

Before those two could really get going, I gripped the nearest mop with two hands and steered a bucket of stagnant gray water onto the main floor. “Call me if you need me.”

Given the nonexistent flow of customers lately, that was unlikely.