Tonya injected a little swagger into her walk as she headed back to her patrons. The rule of waitressing was to check on your table within “two bites, two sips, and two minutes.” If something was wrong with the food, the patrons would want to complain after a couple forkfuls. Let them stew about their unsalted potatoes or overcooked pasta too long, and they might decide to say nothing and take out their dissatisfaction on the gratuity.

“Hey, Tonya.” Mike’s baritone rang out over tinkling glasses. “It looks like I don’t have cinnamon sticks.”

“I’ll ask the kitchen.”

Tonya headed back to the grates. Samuel’s curly hair and yellow-brown skin was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’d run next door for more chocolate cake slices.

Tonya scanned to see who might be manning the pantry. Chefs chopped vegetables, seasoned meat, and tossed pans over flames so high that they would trigger most sprinkler systems.

To anyone who hadn’t known Banque’s kitchen before the pandemic, it might appear a well-oiled machine with no missing—or spare—parts. But Tonya had worked there for over a decade. The absences stuck out like missing teeth. Where was Jason, the eyebrow-pierced saucier who had dribbled rich ragùs atop medium-rare cuts of meat? Or why was Seon-mi, the pink-haired abouyer, head down at the grill and fry stations rather than shouting for dishes to ensure that each table’s entrées all emerged at the same time? Why was there no culinary student from whom she could demand more cinnamon sticks?

Everyone was busy cooking save for one man in the corner—the most important one. Owner and executive chef Philip Banks paced at the end of a long cord appended to a relic of a wall phone. His free hand raked through his graying hair, spiking it with whatever fats and oils coated his long, calloused fingers. Over and over, he brushed the few remaining strands off his broad forehead, revealing the trenches that had dug in during the past year.

“Yes, it’s terrible, honey. And I get you want support, but I can’t…”

Tonya stepped closer to the metal slats, straining to hear what was terrible. Did Philip intend another round of layoffs?

“I’ll tell you what’s more important—I’m running a fucking restaurant.”

Philip ran his hand through his hair again and then let it fall toward his eyes. The irises of each were blue gas flames that seemed to flare as he spoke. “Okay. I know. I’m sorry. But you know I’m understaffed.”

A tongue, one that probably possessed more taste buds than the average human’s, pulled in his bottom lip and then spat it back out above the mask cupping his chin. “Nate was a friend.”