Delia glanced at Anika, then back. “Because the plate was going to go out wrong. And because people were pretending it was fine.”
“People,” Rainer said, “including me.”
“Yes.”
Carmen’s mouth twitched. Anika’s hands tightened in her lap, then loosened.
Rainer set his spoon down. “In this industry, telling the truth can cost you shifts. Holding the truth can cost you the food. I don’t recommend either as a lifestyle for an eleven-year-old. I do recommend you keep your senses and learn when rooms are safe enough for your mouth to follow them.”
“Is this room safe?” Delia asked.
“Today,” Rainer said. “Because we built rules. Rules are not the same as forever.”
They worked through a simple beurre blanc, a tasting of three vinegars, a conversation about why restaurant shallots get pushed too far when tickets stack. Delia’s navy sweater grew warm. A sheen of sweat rose at her hairline. Anika watched for overwhelm and saw focus instead—Delia’s particular stillness, the one that looked like stubbornness until you realized it was attention.
At minute seventy-two, Patricia appeared with water glasses and a reminder of the clock. At minute eighty-eight, Rainer stopped mid-sentence about dye in commercial stocks.
“Time,” Anika said.
Rainer inclined his head. “Time.”
Delia stepped back from the stove. Her legs felt trembly in a pleasant, spent way, like after bowling or climbing the stairs with laundry. She washed her hands. She thanked Carmen. She thanked Rainer. She did not hug anyone. She was not a hugger in professional rooms.
In the dining room, Patricia said, “How do we feel?”
“Tired,” Delia said. “Good tired. I still want to go bowling tonight.”
Anika laughed, relief cracking through. “Then we go home, you drink water, you rest one hour, and we bowl.”
Rainer stood with his hands behind his back. “If you want another session, we can discuss after you’ve lived a week with this one. No pressure. No ladder.”