“Margo, you sure?” Tyler glanced over. “I can?—”
“Cook,” she said firmly. “That’s what you can do. I’ve been slicing tomatoes since before you were born.”
The next hour blurred past. Stella had never seen the Shack this packed—every table full, orders backing up, the kind of controlled chaos that looked like disaster but somehow worked.
“Dante, the napkins go—” Joey started, then winced as Dante folded one into something resembling origami roadkill. “Never mind. Just... get them on tables.”
“On it!” Dante cheerfully mangled another napkin.
Stella noticed Joey physically turning away from the napkin station, his eye twitching. “Let it go,” she murmured as she passed. “We have bigger problems.”
“But they’re so wrong,” Joey whispered. “So beautifully, perfectly wrong.”
“Coming through!” Joey spun past with a loaded tray, navigating the narrow space between stations.
It happened in seconds.
Joey’s elbow caught the edge of the cutting boardjust as Margo brought the knife down. The board jumped. The knife slipped.
The sound Margo made was small, surprised. Almost curious.
Then Stella saw the blood.
“Margo!” Tyler was there instantly, grabbing a clean towel.
“It’s nothing,” Margo said, but blood was already seeping through the white cotton. “Just caught the edge?—”
“That’s not nothing.” Joey had gone sheet-white. “Oh God, Margo, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean?—“
“Accidents happen.” But Margo’s face had paled, and she was pressing harder on the towel. Red bloomed through like spilled ink.
“Hospital,” Tyler said. “Now.”
“We can’t leave! Look at this place!” Margo gestured with her good hand at the packed restaurant, the line still growing.
She was right. They were already down Meg, Luke, and Lisa. Losing Tyler and Margo would mean?—
“I’ll drive her,” Stella offered quickly. “You stay and cook.”
“No.” Tyler didn’t even look up from examining Margo’s hand. “You’ve had your license twelve days. You’re not driving anybody to the ER in competition traffic.”
“But—”
“I’m taking her.” He was already untying his apron. “Joey, you’re on grill.”
“What?” Joey’s voice cracked. “Tyler, I can’t—I don’t know how?—”
“You’ve watched me for three years. You know everything.” Tyler looked at Stella. “You’re in charge.”
The words hit her like cold water. “I’m not—I can’t?—”
“You can.” Margo’s good hand found hers, squeezed hard despite the pain. Blood had soaked through the first towel. Tyler was already wrapping a second. “You’ll know what to do.”
“Dante, get the bleach solution from under the sink,” Tyler ordered. “Ten-to-one ratio. Clean that prep area thoroughly. Stella will show you.”
Then they were gone, Tyler half-carrying Margo out the back door, leaving Stella staring at a kitchen in crisis. Dante stood frozen with the bleach bottle. Joey looked like he might faint. The crowd kept pushing in.
“Orders!” someone called. “We need to order!”
