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Carmine studies my face like he’s trying to determine whether this is a joke.

“So your special is pizza with sadness.”

Marco leans over his cutting board. “Call it the Divorce.”

“Call it the Shiny Lawyer,” I say.

Carmine points at me. “No one knows what that means.”

“I do.”

The printer spits out another ticket.

Carmine grabs it, glares once more at me, then turns away.

“Fine. Black and green olives. If anybody orders it, I’m giving them your number.”

I pull a pizza from the oven, slide it onto the board, and cut it into eight pieces. The blade rocks through the crust cleanly. That sound usually settles something in me.

Not today.

Today, everything I touch feels like it belongs to someone else.

The oven. The apartment. The dead dad. Even my own body is rented out in tokens.

I set the pizza in the window.

“Pepperoni up.”

Carmine takes the plate. “Last chance to cancel the Divorce special.”

“It’s the Shiny Lawyer.”

“Nobody wants lawyer in their mouth.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

My phone buzzes.

Kev.

No message preview.

I put the phone back.

No. I’m at work. Pizza Dude does not read legal updates between oven rotations.

The phone buzzes again. I decide to check.

No direct meeting for now. They say all communication should remain through counsel.

The kitchen keeps moving around me.

Becca is on the couch with one leg tucked under her when I come in, tablet balanced on her knee. The TV is on, but muted. Some house-flipping show with two women staring at a backsplash like tile has the answers.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”