The Long Walk

Chloe wiped her palms on her apron, fingers grazing the stitched-in name tag. She breathed like her therapist taught her: in for four, hold for four, out for six. Walk. Count sugar packets. Notice the squeak in the third tile. Keep your chin a quiet line. She could refuse the table - say she was slammed, pass it to Rico. But a straighter, quieter idea set: Serve her. Serve her well. Keep the power. It was her diner; it could be her narrative.