Page 11 of Play Maker
Sweep the floor—check
Get behind the stage speakers—check
Turn off stage lights, leave solar fairy lights on—check
Confirm Mickey signed off on temp logs—check
Clean flat top, fryer, prep station—check
Empty bins, tie off trash, and walk it all the way out—check
Check walk-in, label anything borderline—check
Refill coffee station—check
Mop bathroom floors—check
Restock TP, soap, and extra feminine products—check
Check mirrors—check
Turn OFF open sign—check
Lock, windows, patio gates and doors—check
All Items have been checked, and now … breathe. Just for a second. Long enough to take my hair out of the braid, run my fingers through it, and roll my neck.
Next, I hit the Brooks Brew Fam messenger:
All clear. Brew closed. Goodnight, fam.
I zip my coat, tighten my scarf, brace for the cold so that I can take my time, soak in the cold fresh air I love so much, but not freeze.
That’s when I hear it.
Rrrrrrrrrgh … click.
A truck engine trying to start.
Once. Twice. And then—nothing.
Not afraid, but that doesn’t mean I’m not on my toes.
I slide my hand in my pocket and grip my taser before I look around and see it.
My heart thuds once, hard. I know that truck.
It’s him.
I pull my hood up against the wind and sigh. Boots crunching into fresh snow that reaches halfway up my calves. The flakes come down fat and fast now, blurring the edges of the world. My silo is maybe fifteen yards away, but it feels like a trek through Narnia.
And then I hear it again.
Rrrrrgh. Click. Rrrrrrrgh. Click.
Kolby’s truck is under the spotlight, hood dusted in snow, windshield wipers half-frozen mid-swipe. I should just wave, shout something sarcastic, and keep walking. But no. I trudged over, breath coming out in white puffs, and rap on the driver’s side window with my knuckles. The glass is cold as hell.
Kolby jumps like he wasn’t expecting company then opens the door just a crack. “You lost?”
