Page 8 of The Hellkeeper

I stare at the burger, certain I didn’t put pickles in it. I know because I checked. Twice.

“I—I’m sure I—”

I flinch as he slams his hands on the table.

"Jesus Christ, just fucking fix it."

What can I say? He’s not even letting me explain. My hands shake at my sides. I don’t want to argue with him, the customer is always right, after all.

All I can do is nod quickly and reach for the plate, but he’s already standing. He doesn’t even give me a chance to “fix” this. He storms out, cursing me under his breath.

This is humiliating. It feels like ropes are wrapping around my lungs. I can’t breathe.

What if Margaret kicks me out?

What if I messed up?

What if—

A warm hand touches my shoulder.

It’s Margaret, and she looks at me with sympathy.

“Don’t,” she says gently. “Don’t let an ass like that get to you.”

She rubs slow circles into my back. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it, but it fills me with relief; she’s not mad at me.

With a huff, she pulls a small envelope from her apron pocket and holds it out to me.

“What’s this?”

“Your pay for the week.”

I shake my head fast. “No, Margaret.” I take a step back. “I don’t need it. You’ve already done more than enough.”

“What you need is to go buy yourself something nice.” She presses the envelope into my palm. “And take the day off. I’ve got it from here.”

“But—”

“No ‘but.’” She folds my fingers over the money. “Go.”

I should insist. Truly, I will never be able to repay her, even if I work in the restaurant for free for years. But what I’ve learned about Margaret over the past week is that she’s very stubborn. So, I agree.

***

I roam the streets carefully, dodging shoulders, watching the way everyone moves with such purpose. I don’t know if I’ll ever walk like that.

A shop catches my eye, it’s a boutique with a mannequin in the window dressed in something that makes you want to spin in front of a mirror. I walk in, trailing my fingers down different dresses, but one in particular catches my eye.

The color is a deep, emerald green and it feels like silk. The neckline dips just enough to feel like a secret. The skirt is full, made to catch a breeze. I lift it off the rack, pressing it against me. It’s perfect. Then I check the price tag.

My stomach drops.

I put it back immediately. Ever since I started working at the restaurant, I’ve become smarter with money. I may still have a lot to learn, but one thing I’m sure of is that this dress is worth more than a week’s revenue at the restaurant. Much more.

I shake it off and leave.

Outside, the cold air stings my face. The city feels louder now, harsher.

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