Six months after Easter, at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night, my heels burned like salt in an open cut.

I balanced four heavy ceramic plates along my left forearm, hot beef gravy dripping onto the white cotton sleeve of my diner apron.

Patty slung two orders of fried catfish onto the metal pickup window and wiped her red forehead with a wet dish towel.

“Table four needs extra tartar sauce, Emily,” Patty said, her apron smelling of canola oil and bleach.

“And put your feet up for two minutes before you collapse on my linoleum.”