In the back storeroom there was an old, thirteen-inch TV hidden behind industrial-sized cans of green beans. I noticed it when I went back for a sack of potatoes—the blank screen caught the light from the bare overhead bulb and threw the room back at me in reflection. “Hey,” I called out, half talking to myself. Chris stood by the grill. He probably couldn’t hear me over the sizzling burgers. Forgetting about the potatoes, I moved the beans aside to get to the TV. “There’s a TV back here.”
Chris glanced up as I came back into the kitchen. “It’s Dawn’s,” he told me. Dawn was the daytime manager, a mythical being I had never met since I worked nights. Chris flipped two burgers on the grill, pressing them flat with his spatula to make the grease spit. “I think she said it doesn’t work.”
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