They gathered at the Shack at five-thirty. Tyler arrived first, camera bag over his shoulder—he’d shot something that afternoon, and the bags under his eyes were the same but his posture was different. Straighter. Like he’d remembered something about himself.
Meg arrived with Luke, who carried a legal pad and a tray of coffees from the place on Forest Avenue. Meg had given him “note-taking duties,” which Luke accepted the way he accepted everything involving Walsh family logistics—with coffee and patience.
Michael came last. He carried his laptop, his notebook, and a folder thick enough to stop a door. He set everything on the prep counter and arranged it—laptop centered, notebook parallel, folder squared—and looked at the room.
Meg stood at the head of the prep counter. She’d changed into jeans and a sweater but she still looked like she was about to give a client presentation. “Michael, walk us through the numbers.”
Michael opened the laptop. “I’ve broken down revenue by service period, day of week, and staffing cost.” He turned the screen so everyone could see. “The data is clear on three points.”
Tyler pulled up a stool. Anna leaned against the grill. Luke handed out coffees and opened his legal pad.
“Point one.” Michael pointed to a column. “Weekend breakfast is profitable. Saturday and Sunday mornings generate more revenue per hour than any other service period, including the original lunch service. Tyler’s eggs Benedict and Joey’s muffins are the primary draw.”
Tyler sat up straighter. “More than lunch?”
“Per hour, yes. The ticket average is higher and the volume on weekends is consistent.” Michael moved to the next column. “Point two. Weekday breakfast is marginal. Weekday mornings, the traffic covers costs but doesn’t generate meaningful surplus. The boardwalk crowd is smaller Monday through Friday and the regulars come for lunch regardless.”
Tyler’s face changed. “Marginal.”
“The data?—”
“I’ve been getting up at five AM for three weeks. Five AM, Michael. I learned to poach eggs. I burned my wrist.” Tyler held up his arm—the scabbed-over grease burn, still healing. “And you’re telling me that Monday through Friday doesn’t matter?”
“I’m telling you what the numbers show.”
“The numbers don’t show what it took. They don’t show the twelve eggs I destroyed learning how to do this or the ceiling stain or the—” Tyler stopped. Took a breath. “People come in and they know my name now. The jogger—the one from day one—she comes every Tuesday. She brings her friend.”
“Two customers,” Michael said. “The weekday average is nine.”
Tyler looked at the spreadsheet. At the column that said his mornings were marginal. Anna watched her brother’s jaw work—the way that meant he was swallowing something he didn’t want to swallow.
Michael clicked to the dinner data. “Point three. Dinner service is not covering the cost of extended staffing when you account for the hours the family is working without compensation.”
“Without compensation,” Meg repeated.
“If you factor in those hours at even minimum wage, the dinner service is operating at a loss every night except Friday and Saturday.”
“The dinner service is building,” Anna said.
Everyone looked at her.
“We’ve had more tables every week. The view brings people in. The regulars are starting to come for dinner too — Mrs. Patterson was here Tuesday. She ordered soup and stayed for an hour.” Anna crossed her arms tighter. “It just needs more time.”
“Anna,” Meg said.
“It needstime. We’ve been open for dinner for three weeks. You can’t judge a dinner service in three weeks.”
“You can judge the cost,” Michael said. “Three weeks of unpaid family labor?—”
“It’s not unpaid. It’s our restaurant. You don’t pay yourself to run your own?—”
“You do if your niece is missing college deadlines because of it,” Meg said.
The kitchen went quiet.
“That’s not—” Anna started.
“Bea missed the RISD preliminary deadline because she was here plating focaccia. That’s a fact, Anna. Not an interpretation.” Meg’s arms were folded. Her voice was level but her eyes were bright. “The dinner service isyourproject. You chose it. You staffed it with teenagers and your exhausted brother and you told everyone it was fine?—”
