“You’re going to get us all killed.”
“Not today,” I say. “Today we’re selling food.”
The bell over the door jingles again.
Another customer.
Service doesn’t care about mob threats.
Service keeps coming.
For twenty minutes, everything holds.
And then the universe starts collecting.
Mara comes up to me with her phone pressed to her ear, eyes wide.
“Kim,” she whispers. “The produce truck didn’t show.”
I close my eyes for one heartbeat.
“Did they call?”
“They’re not answering.”
Ishaan shouts from the kitchen.
“Kim! We are about to be out of cilantro and tomatoes!”
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I grab the landline and call our supplier myself.
Straight to voicemail.
I hang up. Dial again.
Voicemail.
“Okay,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “We pivot. Ishaan, eighty-six the tomato salad. Push the lentil soup and the shawarma hard.”
He pokes his head out.
“We’re gonna run out of onions by dinner rush.”
“We’ll make it work.”
“How?”
“We always do,” I say, louder than necessary.
Ten minutes later, the refrigeration unit on the cold line makes a sound like a dying animal.
It shrieks.
Then goes dead.
All the lights on the panel blink off at once.
