I gave copies to my coworkers and kept several folded inside my bag in case I met someone new. Before every shift, I checked my phone and prayed that one of those posters had produced a miracle.
It never did.
I printed hundreds of missing-person posters.
Since Mom vanished, “whatever I could spare” had become almost everything. Searching for her wasn’t cheap. Neither was keeping our family afloat without her.
That Friday, a couple was seated in my section shortly after seven. They looked like they belonged at this restaurant: wealthy enough to treat the prices as decorative suggestions.
They were celebrating their anniversary, they told me.
They were polite—kinder than many of our regulars—but distracted. The man
kept checking his phone beneath the table. Every time he did, the woman stopped talking and watched his face.
“Could we have the check?”
Still, they ordered like people determined to celebrate: oysters, filet mignon, lobster, three cocktails, and a bottle of Bordeaux from the locked cabinet.
By the time they declined dessert, their bill had reached $407.63.
“Could we have the check?” the man asked, glancing at his phone again.
I set the leather folder beside him and went to deliver drinks to another table. I couldn’t have been gone more than three minutes.
When I returned, the booth was empty.
“They left.”
So was the payment tray.
I checked the restrooms, then hurried toward the entrance. No sign of them.
Jett barely looked up when I rushed into his office.
“They left,” I said. “Table twelve. They didn’t pay.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Maybe they’re in
a restroom or grabbing a smoke?”
“Check the cameras. You’ll see them leave.”
“I don’t have time to dig through footage during dinner service.” He finally looked at me. “You know the policy. Walkouts come out of the server’s pocket.”
“That’s four hundred dollars.”
“Then take it as a lesson.”
