Tony
The clock over the cooling racks ticked toward eight, the steady thunk of the second hand finally outlasting the distorted guitars of Myra’s playlist. We’d officially survived the evening rush. Mackenzie had been a whirlwind since she’d arrived at three, still in her school hoodie, trading her backpack for an apron without missing a beat.
The teenager was acting her usual "tougher than the mountains" self, scrubbing the prep tables with a ferocity that was borderline personal. But I’d caught her watching Myra all night. Every time Myra handled a complex bulk order in her head or stood her ground when a supplier called to haggle over prices, Mac’s eyes would widen just a fraction. It wasn't just respect; it was the kind of hero worship you only see in seventeen-year-olds who think th
