The shack came alive with the kind of midday chaos only a lunch rush could bring—laughter spilling out the door, sizzling oil popping in the fryer, and the smell of spicy gumbo and fried shrimp thick in the air. The bell over the door jingled every few seconds, and the chatter of regulars filled the cozy space.
Behind the counter, Rae worked the register with practiced ease, her fingers flying over the buttons while she traded jokes in Cajun with an older fisherman. Every few moments, someone would call out, “Rae-Bug, you still runnin’ this place better than Anna!” or, “You finally stop terrorizin’ the vending machines, cher?”
Rae rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “Keep talkin’, and I’ll charge you double for the hush puppies.”
The man just laughed, sliding a few bills across the count
