The morning sun spilled across the narrow kitchen counter in Vera's apartment, turning the chipped tile gold for a few brief moments. Ava sat hunched over a cup of cheap instant coffee, her legs pulled up on the chair, hoodie sleeves covering her hands. Tess was still asleep on the mattress on the floor, curled under Vera's spare blanket. Vera herself had already gone out — some part-time job at a hair salon, she'd said — but not before scribbling a note and taping it to the fridge: Try the café down on 5th. They had a help wanted sign last week.
Ava read it again, folding and unfolding the paper with her thumb.
She hadn't planned this far ahead.
Running had been about getting away, not getting somewhere. But now they were here. Somewhere. And somewhere came with rent and food and a girl depending on her. She couldn't sit around and let Vera carry the weight — not after everything.
So she borrowed one of Vera's plainer shirts, tied up her wild curls the best she could, and left the apartment quietly, trying not to wake Tess.
The streets were already humming with noise by the time Ava stepped outside. Buses whooshed past, people rushed to their jobs, kids in clean uniforms filed toward schools. It felt like a different planet. One she'd only ever seen through a smeared window.
She stopped at six places before lunchtime.
Two diners. A dry cleaner. A little bookstore with an apologetic older woman who smiled and said, "Sorry, we're not hiring anymore." Then a flower shop whose manager asked if she could lift 40-pound bags of soil.
The answer was yes.The job still went to someone else. They said a man was more ideal for the job.
The café on 5th was her last hope.
The girl behind the counter looked about her age, chewing gum with the kind of apathy that suggested she'd seen worse. She eyed Ava's mismatched clothes, then the hopeful look in her eyes.
"You ever worked in food before?"
Ava shrugged. "Not really. But I learn fast."
"You know how to cook?"
"No. But I can take orders, clean tables. Whatever you need."
The girl blew a bubble and popped it. "You're in luck then. We mostly just need a server. The kitchen's handled. Wait here."
Ava did. Fifteen minutes later, she was speaking to the manager — a thin, balding man with a clipboard and an impatient tone. After a brief, halfhearted interview, he waved her in.
"You start tomorrow. Black shirt, clean shoes. No weird attitude."
Ava blinked. "I don't have an attitude."
"You're talking back already."
She bit her tongue. "Okay."
…
The first day was a mess.
She fumbled with the tablet that took orders, spilled water on a kid's lap, and accidentally told one customer they were out of muffins when they weren't.
But she stayed polite — her version of polite, anyway — and smiled when she could.
It wasn't until her third shift that the cracks began to show.
She didn't mean to swear. Not really. But when one of the customers asked for almond milk and then yelled that she'd said oat milk, Ava had replied, "The hell? Why the f*ck are you changing your order like that, girl? At least be frank about it and stop acting like that's what you ordered in the first place."
The woman's jaw dropped.
"You don't talk to customers like that."
Ava blinked, confused. "Like what?"
"Like this is a street corner."
She didn't even know what she'd said wrong.
Back in Marcus's house — and even in the homes before that — f*ck, shit, damn, hell, what the hell are you doing, don't screw it up again, that was badass, he's a dumbass — that was just language. Not meant to insult. Just how people spoke.
But apparently, it wasn't professional.
After that, she tried to censor herself. Bit her lip more. Switched "shit" to "shoot." Caught herself when "the hell" almost slipped out.
It wasn't easy.
Especially not when customers were the worst kind of people. Rude. Impatient. Entitled. She was wondering how Vera did it since she said she worked in this cafe before.
Still, Ava held on.
For Tess.
For herself.
For a future that wasn't built on running.
…
It was a Friday afternoon when it happened.
The café was half-full, the lunch rush over but the dinner crowd not yet in. Ava was working the front section when a man in a navy suit came in, flashed a smile that felt too rehearsed, and slid into a booth without making eye contact.
She approached with a notepad. "Welcome. Can I get you started on something to drink?"
He looked up slowly, eyes sweeping her over in a way that made her stomach knot.
"Water. No ice," he said.
She nodded, writing it down. "Ready to order or need a sec?"
"No, I know what I want."
He rattled off an order — blackened chicken sandwich, no tomatoes, extra pickles, fries instead of salad. She repeated it back, then walked to the tablet and punched it in exactly as he'd said.
When she brought his food twenty minutes later, he glanced at the plate, raised an eyebrow, and said flatly, "What the fuck is this?"
Ava blinked. "Uh… your chicken sandwich?"
"I said no pickles."
"No," she replied, holding up her notepad. "You said extra pickles."
He leaned back, smiling now — but it wasn't a nice smile.
"You're calling me a liar?"
"I'm just saying that I wrote it down the way you ordered—"
"You're saying I don't know what I ordered? That I'm too stupid to remember it?"
His voice was getting louder. Heads were turning.
Ava felt heat rise to her cheeks. "No, that's not what I said. I just—look, I can fix it—"
"Oh, I don't want it fixed," he said, standing now. "I want the manager. You're rude. You've got a foul mouth. You swore at me."
"I did not—!"
"Manager!" he barked, looking over her shoulder.
The manager — clipboard guy — was there in a flash.
"What's the problem?"
"This girl cursed at me. Got nasty when I asked for my food to be corrected. I told her it was wrong and she flipped out. Completely unprofessional."
Ava opened her mouth, stunned. "That's not what happened—"
"She even showed me her little notepad like that proves anything. I think she just wrote it wrong and is covering her ass."
The manager turned to Ava. "Is that true?"
"I wrote what he said! He's twisting it! I didn't curse at him, I just—"
"That's enough," the manager snapped. "You're done here."
"What?!"
"You're fired. Take your things and go. I don't need this kind of trouble. Especially not with him."
Ava froze. "Wait… with him?"
The man gave her a smug little wink. "He's an Investor."
Of course.
Of course.
She stared at them both — the coward with the clipboard and the liar in the suit — then grabbed her apron and stormed out before the tears could come.
Outside, the air hit her hard. She ripped off the apron, shoved it into the nearest trash can, and kept walking. Her head was spinning. Her fists clenched.
She hadn't even done anything.
Except try.
Try to work.
Try to speak like a normal person.
Try not to fall apart.
And it still wasn't enough.
The world didn't care about girls like her — girls who never finished school, who learned English on the streets, who couldn't tell you the difference between "rude" and "language" until someone was already shoving it in their face.
By the time she reached Vera's apartment, her legs felt like stone. She knocked twice, then collapsed on the doorstep before the door even opened.
Vera's face appeared in the crack a moment later. "Ava?"
Ava looked up, eyes glazed.
"I got fired," she said, voice flat.
Vera didn't ask why. She just opened the door wider and pulled her inside.