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?”

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