“You want me”—it was hard processing this handoff of responsibility—“to do it?”

“Grab a headset. If you’re up for it.”

I was.

When the dinner rush hit, it hit! For an hour straight, I was taking orders, and cash, and cards, while filling drink cups, and bagging up Cra-Burgers hot off the grill. Not only was I rocking the NFL coach–style headset, I’d donned the FISHto’s parka, crimson like our swashbuckling mascot’s waistcoat, because Virginia was acting appropriately seasonal for once, and opening the window for each order was like cracking the airlock on a ship in frigid space. Icy gusts slapped my cheeks and forehead, which I kind of liked. It kept me sharp. Focused on getting the orders right. So focused, I didn’t recognize the voice in my ear ordering two Fun Flounder meals with extra cocktail sauce and Whale-Sized drinks.

I scooped ice, poured Cokes, dropped sandwiches and Clam Clusters in a bag, layered on some napkins, and placed the extra sauces on top. When I popped the window to pass them out, Mason Miles waited, a debit card extended while he chatted with his passenger.

Kiera.

I froze. Not from the wind. I couldn’t feel the cold anymore. Couldn’t feel anything.

Mason’s neck twisted. “What up, Del?”

My attention was on her. Her eyes flicked down, though she managed a squeaky “Hey Del.”

“Hey.” That wasn’t me speaking. Was it? I felt outside of myself, like my soul was leaving my body and watching all this from the outside. One final torment before moving on to a (hopefully) better place.

“Del?” Mason said. “You good?”

I still hadn’t taken his card. Kiera wouldn’t even look at me.

Muscle memory unstuck me, got me through. I swiped his card, returned it with his receipt, then passed him his order. All on autopilot. A robot performing a programmed task. Even mentioned, “Be careful with those drinks,” as I pushed the cardboard cup holder to him.

“Thanks, man.” He peeled away. No “the best man won” posturing. Nothing disrespectful. It was too cold for all that.

“Del!” Tyrell shouted, unmistakable disappointment in his voice. “We’re backing up! Can you handle this or not?”

“Sure,” I lied.

But he was talking about drive-thru, wasn’t he?

“Hey, could you pass that cranberry sauce?” Cressie asked.

I’d barely tasted any of the food as my family chatted at the table Thanksgiving Day. Couldn’t concentrate on the Cowboys game with Dad. Or Cressie and Mom’s annual The Wizard of Oz viewing. My body was present, but my mind was still in that drive-thru window, catching a cold slap to the face.

The next morning, at 4 a.m., when Mom knocked on my bedroom door, asking if I was venturing out with her and my sister to watch the Black Friday retail brawls, I was awake but declined. What if Mason had Thanksgiving dinner with the Westings?

What kind of moping troll I looked like, I didn’t know. The couple of times I glanced in a mirror, patches of my face alternated between oily and ashy. My shower game was not on point and Cressie wasn’t shy about letting me know. On Saturday, when it was time for my evening shift at FISHto’s, Dad lounged on the couch, enjoying some alone time since Mom and Cressie had taken a long drive to Richmond for hot yoga and lunch.