The smell hit me first, garlic and cumin and warm bread.
At the hostess station, a young woman named Krista stood checking her phone.
She was twenty-three, with a sleek ponytail and a gold Cartier Love bracelet on her wrist, which caught the light every time she scrolled.
It wasn’t the kind of bracelet a hostess buys on eleven dollars an hour.
I noticed it, and then I forgot it.
“Excuse me, miss,” I said politely. “Could I have a glass of water and maybe some soup? I’ve only got four dollars.”
She finally looked up.
Her eyes traveled from my faded jacket to my dirty shoes.
Her expression immediately hardened.
“Sorry. We’re completely booked.”
I glanced into the dining room.
Nearly half the tables were empty.
“Are those tables reserved?”
“Yes,” she said sharply. “You should try somewhere cheaper.”
My mother’s photograph hung a few feet away, and the brass plaque under it gleamed.
