Chapter 2 - The Cost of Mercy
"That meal comes out of your paycheck. Okay? Gosh."
The voice shattered the fragile warmth like a hammer through glass.
Sam didn't flinch. He slowly straightened his back, turning to face the man standing three feet behind him.
Richard, the shift manager, stood with his arms tightly crossed over his crisp white dress shirt. His hair was slicked back with heavy pomade, and his thin, red-striped necktie was pulled so tight against his throat it looked like it was choking him. Richard’s face was twisted into a scowl of pure administrative malice. His plastic name tag, polished to a shine, gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
"She doesn't have a cent, Sam," Richard hissed, stepping closer so his voice wouldn't carry to the three truck drivers sitting at the counter. "You know the rule. No money, no food. This isn't a homeless shelter. You're already sixty dollars short on your register balance from last week, and now you're hand-feeding vagrants?"
"I'll pay for it, Richard," Sam said quietly, keeping his head low. Forty years of surviving in low-wage kitchens had taught him that eye contact with small men in small positions of power only prolonged the lecture. "Put it on my tab."
"Oh, I will," Richard sneered, taking out a small yellow notepad from his breast pocket and writing down the itemized cost of two eggs and sausage with deliberate, exaggerated strokes. "And if she isn't out of that booth in ten minutes, I'm calling the precinct. We have paying customers trying to enjoy their coffee without smelling a gutter."
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The girl in the booth kept her head down, her hands shaking violently as she lifted a cheap metal fork. "Thank you," she whispered toward Sam's boots.
Richard scoffed, turned on his heel, and marched back toward his glass-enclosed office at the back of the kitchen.
