Chapter 4 - The Anatomy of Neglect
Hank paused, the dirty rag frozen in his grease-stained hand. He squinted at Silas, taking in the heavy leather vest, the thick silver skull ring on Silas's right thumb, and the quiet, dangerous posture of the big stranger. Hank let out a dry, wheezing laugh that ended in a wet smoker’s cough.
"Who? Clara?" Hank gestured dismissively toward the back door with his thumb, wiping a spot of dried egg yolk off the counter top. "Girl’s a health hazard when she’s wet. Dripping water all over the floor, making the place look like a homeless shelter. Customers don't want to see that when they're eating their breakfast."
Silas stared at the cook. His dark eyes did not blink. The silence between the two men lengthened, thick and suffocating, until the sound of the rain outside seemed to amplify tenfold.
"It's thirty-eight degrees out there," Silas said quietly, his voice dropping an octave into a register that made the hairs on the back of Hank’s neck stand up. "And it's pouring."
Hank’s sneer faltered slightly under the weight of Silas’s unyielding stare, but his stubbornness quickly asserted itself. He slapped the rag down on the counter with an aggressive flick of his wrist.
"Look, mister, I run my establishment how I see fit," Hank grumbled, leaning his thin, round-shouldered torso over the pass-through window. "She gets fifteen minutes a shift. What she does with it is her business. Besides, she ain't out there cause she likes the weather. She’s out there cause she’s distracted. Half the time she’s dropping plates or crying in the walk-in freezer. I oughta fire her, to be honest."
"Her little girl is sick," Hank added casually, as if mentioning a mild inconvenience like a flat tire or a late bread delivery. "Got some kind of brain disease down at the county hospital. Costs a fortune. Girl’s out of her mind with it. Can't focus on her orders."
The words hung in the warm, greasy air of the diner like toxic gas.
Silas’s right hand, resting on the Formica counter, tightened into a broad, heavy fist. The knuckles turned white, the black ink of the shattered hourglass tattoo stretching taut across his skin.
May you like
Her little girl is sick.
The phrase echoed inside Silas’s skull, shattering the carefully constructed wall of detachment he had spent a decade building. He looked back toward the rain-streaked window. Through the glass, he could see Clara carefully folding the wet photograph, placing it back into her apron pocket, and wiping her face with her wet sleeves before standing up from the blue bucket. Her body was shaking so violently she had to catch herself against the rusted doorframe before stepping back inside.
