LYRA’S POV
The transition between the worlds was always the most violent part.
At Garrison Heights, the air was conditioned to a perfect, effortless coolness, silent save for the soft scratch of stylus pens on expensive glass. At The Rusty Spoke, the air was thick, heavy, and loud. It humed with the constant, vibrating rattle of the dual-basket deep fryers and the greasy, rhythmic clatter of Mitch’s metal spatula hitting the cast-iron flat-top.
"Order up! Two double-freights, extra grease, table four!" Mitch’s voice boomed over the sizzle of the line, raw and grating.
"On it," I muttered, my voice candy-smooth despite the prickle of sweat already forming at my hairline.
I grabbed the heavy plastic baskets, the heat from the fresh lard-fries rising up to hit my face, and slid out onto
