I got out of the truck and walked around to the back service door, past three metal grease drums where the smell of old fryer oil was thick enough to taste.

Patty was sitting on an upturned plastic pickle bucket behind the kitchen, smoking a thin cigarette with her white apron folded across her knees.

Her gray hair was pulled back in a tight net, and a stack of green guest checks was tucked into her side pocket.

“You’re late for a kitchen application, Emily,” Patty said without looking up.

“We stopped serving the Easter turkey special at two o’clock.”

“I’m not applying for kitchen work,” I said.