And she stepped away from the counter.
The desert heat struck her immediately, dry and sharp in her lungs. The man’s breathing was uneven, shallow in a way that made her pulse quicken. Sweat soaked through his collar. His skin had taken on that unsettling gray pallor that signaled something was wrong beneath the surface.
“Sir? Can you hear me?” she asked, kneeling beside him.
His eyes opened slightly, revealing a stormy blue dulled by exhaustion.
“Don’t call… ambulance,” he muttered.
“You can barely sit up.”
She pressed her hand against his shoulder, feeling the weight of him. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t reckless. He was depleted.
Inside, orders were stacking up.
Outside, she poured water from a nearby outdoor pitcher into a plastic cup and guided it toward his lips.
“You’re overheated,” she said quietly. “When’s the last time you ate?”
