A favor.
I had arthritis in my fingers and knees that complained every time I climbed stairs.
The dishwashing room was hot, damp, and windowless.
The floor was almost always wet.
And the industrial sprayer was difficult to handle even on my good days.
Chad knew all that.
But he had already made his decision.
I could have quit.
After thirty-eight years, nobody would have blamed me.
Instead, I remembered something Gus, the original owner, had told me fifteen years earlier.
A promise he’d made beside the grill.
I looked at Chad.
“If that’s what you need, I’ll do it.”
His expression brightened immediately.
“Great! I knew you’d understand.”
I walked out of the office, passed the familiar counter, and pushed through the kitchen doors.
Then I put on the heavy rubber apron.
And started washing dishes.
I was twenty-four when I first walked into Gus’s Diner.
