Tonya kicked the truck’s metal interior and screamed. The cry belonged to a harpy, high and visceral. She slammed her hands over her mouth, realizing that Layla might hear, and continued yelling into her palms. Afterward, she dropped to her knees and took out her phone. She’d given her life to Layla, the restaurant, and her secrets. The truth was, they were all she really had left.

Philip answered on the second ring, uttering “Hello?” with the wary tone of someone concerned that they might have inadvertently answered a telemarketer.

“Hi, Chef.” Tonya cleared her throat. “I mean Philip. Mr. Banks.”

She pulled the phone away from her mouth, giving herself a moment to exhale and correct her stumbling introduction. “It’s Tonya Sayre.”

“Hello, Tonya…” Movement added clattering sounds to the end of her name. Philip was taking the phone somewhere. “How are you?”

He already knew the answer, Tonya thought. How often did an employee call their boss hours after being furloughed with news of getting another gig or winning the lottery? “Um, I’m calling because you said this morning that you would see what you could do about keeping me on in some capacity, and I really need the work. I could clean the kitchen, perhaps, or deliver food. I was thinking I could use Citi Bikes or, maybe, get a bicycle off of Craigslist with those baskets.”

Philip sighed. “I’d really like to keep you on but—”

“I’m good at cleaning,” she interrupted. “You should see my house. It’s always neat and…” Her voice started to break. “The truth is, Philip, Layla’s child support usually covered my rent. But since it hasn’t been paid in a few months, the landlord kicked me out. All my stuff was out on the street when I returned today. I need to have a job to rent anywhere else. Landlords will want to see employment. Not to mention first and last month’s rent. And…”

The reality of her words overwhelmed her. Who was she kidding? Tonya thought. She wouldn’t be able to scrape together first and last month’s rent anywhere, even with Philip keeping her employed. Her call was pointless. She’d have to return to Stoney Hill, Pennsylvania, the failed actress limping back to the farm with her tail tucked between her legs. Layla would have to say good-bye to school and her friends, squeezing her gifted little mind into whatever box the public school could provide. She’d have to get used to standardized tests and learning things not because they interested her, but because that’s just what people learned at that point in public school.