“Where’s the woman from bussing?” you ask.
A dishwasher glances up, then away. “Which one?”
“The one in the black apron. Ponytail. Navy scrubs.”
Nobody answers immediately. Kitchen staff learn quickly that silence is often the cheapest form of self-protection. Then, from near the prep table, a young pastry assistant jerks her chin toward the rear exit.
“She just took the trash out.”
You are already moving.
The back alley behind Saint Laurent House smells like rain, fryer oil, spoiled lettuce, and the sour sweetness of old wine soaking into concrete. Dumpsters line one wall. A security light flickers overhead, making everything feel unstable, as though the building itself is trying not to witness what happens there. At the far end of the alley, near the loading dock, Nayeli is kneeling beside a dented silver hatchback that looks one hard winter away from surrender.
You slow before she sees you.
She is not eating the food.
That realization hits first, sharp and strange. She is sorting it. Carefully. Like triage. Bread into one bag, fish into another, rice into small containers, vegetables separated if they still look decent. The movements are fast but methodical. Not desperate. Not mindless. Intentional.
