Before he could protest that he hadn’t been invited on any adventures, she was gone, walking down the street to Mr. McIntyre’s car. The young woman got out of the passenger seat, so pregnant she couldn’t button up her coat. She was beaming for Mrs. Brodigan, who was smiling too, and the two women embraced as Mr. McIntyre scooted into the middle of the front bench seat, making room for Mrs. Brodigan to drive.

Rory smiled wistfully. He stepped close to the building, next to the faded letters that still spelled out Brodigan’s Appraisals, and watched her drive away.

He made it to the hotel restaurant just before it opened for lunch. Next to the kitchen was an office for the restaurant manager and a short row of lockers. Rory always brought the lock from the inside of his boarding house door, and he quickly stopped by the lockers to secure the one thing he was wearing that he cared about, his newsboy cap from Arthur, along with the envelope of cash Mrs. Brodigan had just given him.

“You’re late,” snapped Mr. Baker, the manager, as Rory made it out on the floor.

Rory wasn’t. But he bit his retort back, because waiters were easy to find in New York and he needed this job.

It was a hugely busy Friday, every table full for lunch, and even the afternoon brought in business. Mr. Baker was too cheap to pay for enough staff, so Rory had to practically sprint around to take care of everyone, because patrons wouldn’t care he was overworked, they’d assume he was slow because he was lazy and leave even smaller tips. He took orders, refilled drinks, and carried trays of oyster cocktail and pea soups, sole gratiné and lamb with mint jelly.

The lunch crowd bled into late afternoon. His feet hurt in the too-big dress shoes before dinner even started, and after four hours of dealing with the dinner crowd, he was aching to crash on even his lumpy boarding house bed. All he wanted for his birthday was to get out of here.

But as he was hanging up his apron, Mr. Baker poked his head out of the office. “You’re on dishes.”

“What?” Rory snapped, before he could stop himself.

“Mind your tone,” Mr. Baker warned, and pointed at the kitchen. “Get in there. Dishwasher quit.”

Of course the dishwasher’d finally quit; she’d been paid even less than the waiters for twelve-hour days in a hot, stuffy kitchen. “It’s nine thirty.” Rory gritted his teeth. “And I’ve been here since lunch.”

“And you still want to be here tomorrow, right?” Mr. Baker said icily.

Washing the dishes would take hours; long past ten, when his boarding would be locked, and now he no longer had the shop to sleep in. If he kept working, where was he gonna spend the night? The street?