“He’s going to ask follow-up questions.”
“He always does.”
By eight o’clock they’d served nine people. By nine, the boardwalk crowd had found them—dog walkers and surfers and the early-coffee regulars who’d been going to the café down the street and now stopped at the Shack because the muffins smelled better than willpower. Tyler plated his first eggs Benedict for a paying customer at eight-forty-five and stood back to look at it—the poached egg centered on the muffin, the Canadian bacon, Meg’s hollandaise drizzled on top.
“Is that right?” he asked Anna.
She looked at it. The egg was slightly off-center. The hollandaise had pooled a bit to one side. The Canadian bacon was curling at the edges.
“It’s good,” she said. “Serve it.”
Tyler carried it to the table. Stella, who had come down before school to photograph the first morning, caught the moment—Tyler setting the plate down, the customer picking upa fork, Tyler standing three feet away pretending not to watch. Click.
“Stop hovering,” Anna said.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re vibrating.”
The customer cut into the egg. The yolk ran. Tyler made a sound that was not quite a word.
“That’s good,” the customer said, mouth full. “That’s really good.”
Tyler walked back to the counter and stood there for a moment, looking at nothing in particular. Anna handed him a towel because he needed something to do with his hands.
“One down,” she said.
“One down.”
Michael’s pen moved for the first time all morning. He wrote something in his notebook. Anna couldn’t see what it said, but his pen stayed on the page longer than a number would take.
Stella left for school at nine. Dante found his rhythm at the register by ten. The breakfast crowd thinned and the lunch regulars started filtering in—Mrs. Patterson with her crossword, Bernie with his tablet, the usual mix. After a morning where everything was new and uncertain, the familiar rhythm of lunch settled over the Shack like a long exhale. Anna shifted from breakfast mode to lunch mode, the grill going from english muffins to grilled cheese, the counter resetting. Tyler stayed through the transition, washing pots, restocking, looking tired but unwilling to leave.
“Go,” Anna said at noon. “Photograph something. I’ve got lunch.”
“You sure?”
“Tyler. Go.”
He went. Took his camera bag and his thermos and left through the back door. Anna watched him go and turned backto the grill, where two grilled cheeses and a tomato soup were working.
Michael left at one. He closed his notebook, finished his coffee, and stood.
“The morning numbers are solid,” he said. “I’ll have a full breakdown by Thursday.”
“Thank you. For being here.”
He nodded once and left. The counter where he’d been sitting looked strange without him—just an empty stool and a coffee ring she’d wipe later.
The afternoon passed. Bernie stayed until closing, which he always did. Mrs. Patterson finished her crossword and left her tip folded under the salt shaker. Dante survived his first full shift and Joey texted Anna three times asking for a detailed performance review.
Anna typed back.
He did fine. He didn’t cry.
That’s a low bar.
It’s day one at this level. The bar is appropriate.
