Rita’s got one eye on her toddler and the other on her order screen when the landlord calls with his usual morning-after bitch-fest about late-night parties and neighbor complaints. She tucks her phone under her chin and repeats the order back to the red Corolla—two breakfast sandwiches, hold the bacon, coffee black with extra cream—makes a face at Agnes, her boss, when she gets to coffee black with extra cream, a pet peeve of Rita’s because coffee with cream isn’t black anymore, but whatever. Agnes likes to say, the customer is right, usually. She’s okay for a boss, fun even, is also semi-okay with Rita bringing her kid to work now and then. Like today when he sneezed twice at drop-off and Claire, the prissy daycare lady, said absolutely not, but whatever.

Rita punches in another breakfast order—nothing vegan, sorry—and hands the baby a spatula to play with, silver and shiny but not so sharp as the knife he was eyeing. No smoking, I know, she says to the landlord, watches her kid totter off in the direction of the big fridges. It’s a fact that only Kevin lit up and he stepped out on the balcony to do it, but whatever. And the party wasn’t her fault and wasn’t even much of a party, just a couple of people from work letting off steam and they didn’t drink very much or stay late, not much past ten. That’s when the baby woke up wet and crying and Rita made sure to tell her guests to be extra quiet on the stairs when they left because of the old bitch who lived in Number One. I’m sorry, could you repeat that, she says to a man wearing Elvis Costello glasses, blue Chevy, who looks pissed off at having to roll his window back down and shout his order all over again and I know, I know she says to her landlord, louder now because the baby is banging the spatula against wherever the hell he’s disappeared to and she looks around for Agnes to please have a look-see, but she’s busy bussing a couple of tables and taking her time with it and it’s raining harder now and Elvis Costello is brandishing a twenty at her, the landlord is saying eviction when there’s a whoosh and a pop and the smell of burned skin and Rita figures out too late where the baby’s crawled off to.