Nate walked into the small kitchen in canvas coveralls that smelled of diesel, wet earth, and hot engine oil.

He set the foil pie tin on the edge of the enamel sink, took a butter knife from the drying rack, and ate half the pumpkin pie standing right there in his mud-caked work boots.

“How much did you clear at Patty’s?” he asked, his voice gravelly from four hours in the cold wind.

“Ninety-six dollars in tips,” I said, pulling out my hair tie and setting my leather ledger beside the toaster.

“Plus forty-two from the morning shift.”