“Pick it up!”
The manager’s voice cut through the restaurant.
Thirteen-year-old Owen crouched beside the spilled bag.
He wasn’t an employee.
He was delivering food for his mother’s small bakery next door.
A container had slipped from the box.
Nothing broke.
Mr. Kent acted as though Owen had destroyed the kitchen.
“Do you know what this floor costs?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t clean it.”
Customers looked over.
Owen’s face burned.
He grabbed paper towels.
His mother, Claire, usually handled restaurant deliveries herself.
That afternoon she had a migraine.
Owen offered to help.
It should have taken five minutes.
Mr. Kent stood above him.
“Faster.”
Owen wiped the floor.
A waitress named Lucy approached.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Kent snapped, “No.”
“He’s a kid.”
“He caused it.”
Owen whispered, “I said sorry.”
Kent bent closer.
“Then stop talking.”
Lucy stared at him.
