The kitchen at Hefty Henry's was a battlefield of extremes — the thick, greasy heat clung to the air like a second skin, while the back door, frozen halfway shut by relentless March ice, allowed a cold, sharp wind to slice through, carrying with it the acrid stench of stale cigarette smoke from the breakroom just outside.
Pullman leaned heavily against the cracked tile wall, inhaling the foul blend of tar and fryer oil with a practiced resignation. The rowdy late-night crowd had finally trickled out, leaving only the clatter and groan of the endless clean-up ritual to fill the greasy shadows. He tugged at the tight collar of his white uniform shirt, bowing his head to listen for the telltale skittering of rodents in the walls.
"Let’s get this bird flying," Maddie’s sharp voice cut through the thick air. The fifty-year-old night manager spun a finger with no patience left for dawdling.
Pullman’s eyes flicked toward the rear door. It hadn’t budged since Sadie and Brooks had stepped out for their cigarette break, the faint glow from their smokes barely visible in the dim alley beyond.
Christ, let Brooks try his luck on his own time, Pull thought bitterly, feeling a pang of irritation.
A sharp scratching behind the grill made him freeze. Was that really rodent claws, or just some cruel echo bouncing off the metal surfaces?
“Keep it together,” Pull muttered under his breath. “No mice. Not real. Think of something else.”
He silently drew his phone from his pocket, the screen glowing with the slow crawl of a script to a remedial reading website. His fingers traced down the digital page — “Old Kidnapping Dad” was surprisingly popular in the far reaches of the Khyber region, of all places.
“What’s she gonna get for that feisty old bastard? A fancy shindig at some country club? Maybe a diamond?” he sneered quietly, the dark humor a shield against the oppressive stillness.
The phone buzzed suddenly — an email from petitedancer0909@myfakemail.com. The address rang a distant bell: an old ally, perhaps the oldest friend still alive. A comrade in this grim war of survival, maybe.
“Put the phone away, Pull,” Maddie grunted, hauling a stack of cash drawers toward the office with a grunt of effort.
“There are bloody mice in here,” Pull countered.
Brooks slipped the communal lighter back onto the time clock, shepherding Sadie inside with a sheepish grin.
“Clock out,” Maddie snapped.
“Did you hear me?” Pull pressed.
“There’s no mice, Pull.” Maddie rifled through her pocket for the office keys, the worn fabric of her wide-hipped pants creaking. “Health inspector came through before Christmas. Full pass.”
“I can hear them.”
“Then you can go scurry around in the walls and kill them yourself.”
He snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“Now, clock out.” She slid the key into the lock and twisted, the door clicking open.
Pull’s gaze fell on the towering mountain of metal trays and plastic containers in the sink. “Fuck no.”
“Just do it,” Maddie grumbled, her patience wearing thin.
“Two options,” Pull said, voice low and tired. “I stay, get paid. Or, the option I prefer — go home. You do these dishes.”
“I can—” Brooks started before Pull jabbed his elbow into the man’s ribs.
“Don’t be a fucking bootlicker,” Pull hissed sharply.
Brooks folded instantly, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine.”
Maddie huffed and disappeared into the office, leaving Pullman alone with the clatter and his own restless thoughts.
Gods, he just wanted to go home where there was only one mouse — the one he’d trapped behind the pantry door last week.
“Bathroom,” he muttered, voice cracking slightly.
“Two minutes!” Maddie shouted back without looking up.
In the cramped staff lavatory, Pullman sank into the cold plastic seat, his eyes fixed on the glowing phone screen. He read slowly, absorbing the words like a lifeline.
“Bonjour, Big Brother.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled long and slow. She wasn’t his sister by blood, but they’d shared enough in the dark, underground places to forge a bond that defied family trees.
“Haven’t heard from you in a while. Wondering how you’re doing. Wondering when you’re coming to Montreal.”
His stomach twisted at the hollow politeness. “Probably never,” he thought, the walls of his cynicism pressing in.
“I’d come to Winnipeg, but my last semester’s starting soon, projects piling up,” the email continued. “Think you’d find them interesting. Someday — I hope — I might be able to help kids like us.”
Pullman inhaled deeply, sensing the pauses in her typing as she searched for the right English words. Though they hadn’t spoken face to face since he’d finished high school, her mannerisms remained clear — a fragile thread tying past to present.
“Maybe I could use some input. You and Ally. Heard from her? I’m worried. She’s always been hard to reach, but lately…”
A sharp shout broke through his reverie.
“Pull!” Maddie barked. “It’s been three minutes!”
He lowered his head, swallowing a discomfort that had nothing to do with hunger or thirst.
The email dragged on, weighted with the awkwardness of two people drifting apart. The usual sharp sarcasm and wit were buried beneath a brittle, sterile politeness — a silent fury masked by distance and unspoken secrets.
“Pull!”
Old friends and urgent bodily needs would have to wait.
Dishwashing stretched on for nearly twenty minutes, followed by Maddie’s slow, laborious slog through the day’s sales reports. Hefty Henry’s, small but stubborn, clung to pre-millennium business software that groaned under the weight of modern demands.
Pullman paced the slick tile floor, fingers nervously tugging at the fraying straps of his cheap Spider-Man backpack. There had to be mice in the walls — he could hear them, feel their tiny claws scratching at the edges of his sanity.
“You could write an Excel macro to—”
“Don’t want to hear it, Pull,” Maddie snapped, fingers pounding the grease-streaked keyboard. “And would you clock out already?”
“Are you clocked out?” he shot back.
Brooks and Sadie suppressed snickers nearby.
Maddie clicked her tongue, the sting of having to send all closing employees out together cutting into her budget like a scalpel.
“You’re not working,” she said flatly.
“If Hefty Henry wants me somewhere,” Pullman declared, voice trembling with barely contained exhaustion, “he’s paying me from his hefty pockets.”
Silence hung heavy as Pull ran his hands through his unkempt hair, the weight of the night settling deeper.
“What’s taking so long?”
“This piece of shit laptop,” Maddie grumbled, glaring at the screen. “If you want to get home before your mommy tucks you in, you fix it.”
“I’m not doing your job and mine.”
She peered over her glasses, eyes sharp and world-weary.
“Then don’t let me catch you sneaking off to the bathroom again.”
Pullman’s mouth dried to dust. His body froze, the pressure in his abdomen rising like a tidal wave. The hundred mental checklists he ran before stepping outside whispered warnings: The five-block trek home past midnight, the darkened streets, the closed Starbucks and Subway that marked his waypoints.
It’s just gas. A short walk. Don’t give her the satisfaction, he told himself again and again as he resumed pacing.
The scrabbling in the walls grew louder, relentless.
“Just give me the goddamn laptop.”
Maddie looked up, a flicker of dread and disbelief crossing her face — like a hunter caught in her own trap or a gambler’s bluff called at the worst moment.
“Just give me the goddamn laptop!” Pullman shouted, his voice cracking but fierce.
For a long moment, the room hung suspended between exhaustion and desperation, the oppressive kitchen air heavy with unspoken fears and the distant echo of scratching beneath the walls.