Today, I’m Khloe with a k. I smooth the name tag sewn into the fabric, the edges of the patch lifting. Khloe must have been supermodel height. The hem of the skirt skims my calves. The red-and-white uniform is hideous, and my shoes don’t add to the ensemble. My black socks had to be removed. They’re placed neatly in the open locker with the baseball cap, T-shirt, and pants. My cheap ballerina flats already rub against my damaged toe. I’ll have blisters by the end of my shift. But I should also have some much-needed cash, maybe enough to convince Hawke he doesn’t have to take extra assignments. This shift could save his life. I ignore the dust bunnies gathered around the base of the lockers and hurry to the front of the restaurant, passing the kitchen. A large Asian man perspires over a grill, flipping burgers with a metal spatula, his black wifebeater soaked with sweat. He mumbles cuss words in another language and I smile. The chef at Chicago Jim’s Burger Barn seems as temperamental as Karl, the chef at the diner.
