There was an art to asking a favor. Tonya had learned it through trial and error thanks to farmer parents who’d been overextended in every way that counted. And the first part of that art was picking the right person to ask.

People you’ve helped in the past were best. After that, you wanted to hit up folks most likely to sympathize with your situation, the kind of people who would think but for the grace of God go I. Individuals with robber baron wealth could perhaps be counted on for lavish charitable gifts, but Tonya knew that such people didn’t see folks like her as worthy of their largesse—or even tax dollars. Those who worked for a living were more likely to offer a handout to individuals down on their luck, particularly when the individuals in question were neighbors and colleagues who might one day return the kindness.

Philip was the perfect target. Though he wasn’t exactly in Tonya’s debt, he knew that she’d been working for him at far below her usual salary and that her skill set would be in demand once the pandemic ended. If anyone would provide a bridge loan or an opportunity to earn more money, it would be him.

Tonya showed up at the restaurant ten minutes before 6:00 a.m., well before the start of her Saturday brunch shift. Typically, the prep cooks arrived at that hour to ready all the ingredients that would ultimately be incorporated into savory crepes and callaloo, poached eggs over cod fritters, and four other Philip Banks breakfast specialties mashing French classics with Caribbean flavors. Since losing his sous-chef, Philip had begun getting in around dawn as well.

Staff did not enter through the front door. Just before reaching Banque Gauche’s picture windows, Tonya ducked into a side alley, passing the industrial-sized dumpsters where the restaurant tossed its food waste. In the summer, it was nearly impossible to be in the narrow space without retching from the stink of curdled sauces and accumulated leftovers. But the winter transformed the bins into an outdoor icebox, leaving only a faint metallic scent.

The kitchen entrance was directly across from the garbage. Her shoes crunched on the pavement as she approached the door. She lifted her loafer, revealing what appeared to be glitter covering the rubber soles. Something had broken, Tonya realized. Maybe a glass or a plate.

Tonya winced, recalling her earlier accident with the full tray. She walked through the door with her head down, weighted by the residual shame of the memory and her desire not to call attention to herself. The kitchen’s station heads viewed themselves as an offensive line protecting their quarterback from being hit from behind. They would run interference if they thought she was trying to blindside Philip with a request.