Rather than sending corporate spies or installing more cameras, Jordan decided to do what he hadn’t done in years—walk into his own business as a regular man.
He chose his downtown branch—the one he opened first, where his mother used to help cook pies. As he crossed the street, he felt the buzz of cars and early-morning walkers. The smell of sizzling bacon drifted into the air. His heart beat faster.
Inside the diner, the familiar red booths and checkered floor greeted him. It hadn’t changed much. But the faces had.
Behind the counter stood two cashiers. One was a skinny young woman in a pink apron, chewing gum loudly and tapping on her phone. The other was older, heavier, with tired eyes and a name tag that read “Denise.” Neither noticed him walk in.
He stood patiently for about thirty seconds. No greeting. No “Hello, welcome!” Nothing.
“Next!” Denise finally barked, not even looking up.
Jordan stepped forward. “Good morning,” he said, trying to hide his voice.
Denise gave him a once-over, her eyes sliding over his wrinkled hoodie and worn shoes. “Uh-huh. What do you want?”
