Almost There
He tapped the metal table.
“When he came bursting back through my kitchen doors today, ma’am,” Sal said, “bruised up and clutching that backpack like it was his own life, he didn’t come to me for help.
He tried to hide in the pantry.
To clean himself up.
Because he still meant to walk to that office and make his payment before it closed at six.
My head cook found him back there trying to stitch his own torn shirt closed with a safety pin, so he’d look presentable enough to walk in.
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