Noelia Zamora is the general manager now.
She runs the schedule, she runs the books, and every Monday morning, she puts a thick packet on my desk with yellow tabs showing where to sign.
I read every page.
She stands there with her arms folded until I do.
By the back door, there is now a small steel table with a sign.
TWO PLATES.
NO QUESTIONS.
The door is never locked.
Last week, on a gray Wednesday, I put the thrift-store jacket back on.
I did not shave.
I walked in through the front doors, and the bell rang, the one I hung crooked.
At Table 6, Mr. Alvarado looked up from his dominoes and winked.
Noelia came out of the kitchen and set a bowl of chicken-and-dumpling soup in front of me.
The steam smelled like my mother’s kitchen.
I reached into my pocket and put four fresh, crumpled dollars on the table.
