She rushed through the door and strode toward the only open seat at the bar, the stool next to mine. Just like the boss said she would. She was in her mid-twenties. Short hair accenting her oval face. Audrey Hepburn cheekbones. Anya Taylor-Joy eyes. Tiny mole left of her lips. No obvious piercings or tattoos. A kind aura. Some days I hate my job. She waved the bartender over, ordered a cheeseburger and fries with a double Scotch on the rocks. She showed him her ID before he asked, told him she was in a hurry, promised a fat tip for fast service. She tapped her phone to check the time and sighed in exasperation. “What’s the rush?” I asked. “Like it matters to you.” It did matter to me, but I couldn’t tell her why. Couldn’t tell her I’d been thinking about bucking the system. So I said, “This isn’t the kind of place most people run in and out of.” “Yeah, well I’m not most people. Fast-food chains are evil. I like local …