Debbie didn't cry.
She didn't rage, or argue, or demand to speak to someone higher up. She just took her time — folded her apron neatly, placed it into her cloth bag, and zipped it shut.
Her locker door hung open for a moment longer than it needed to.
She stared at it.
For years, jobs like this had come and gone. But this place? It got under her skin.
Maybe it was the noise. Maybe the heat. Maybe Sasha, with her sharp mouth and eyes that never backed down.
Or maybe it was the moment she realized she was no longer untouchable.
Luis appeared again, quieter this time.
"You sure you're done?"
Debbie looked at him. "I've been done. I just didn't know it until now."
He nodded, then reached into his apron and pulled out a wrapped cookie.
"For the road."
Debbie smirked, took it, and walked to the door.
She didn't look back.
In the kitchen, Sasha stood alone at the dish drop.
The silence felt wrong.
She wiped down counters, restacked trays, cleaned dishes that didn't need cleaning — just to keep moving.
Luis approached. "So. You win?"
Sasha didn't answer right away. Then: "Feels more like I survived."
Luis nodded. "Shift's yours now."
Sasha looked around — her station, her pressure, no Debbie to blame.
She whispered, "Guess I better not screw it up."
Outside, Debbie stepped into the sunlight, took a deep breath, and walked down the street, cookie in hand.
For once, she wasn't rushing.
She counted her teeth with her tongue and smiled.
Still all there.