The air smelled of fried pork, stale coffee, and wet pine coming off the fishing boats docked across the street.

She smoothed her wool apron and spoke through the low laminate pass-through window to Pete, the gray-haired owner.

“I can take the four-to-midnight cleaning shifts this weekend,” Caroline said.

“And I can handle the Sunday morning prep if you need extra hands for the breakfast rush.”

Pete turned around slowly from the toaster, holding a damp rag in his right hand.

He looked down at the scratched linoleum floor before meeting her eyes.