"Morning, koritsi mou," he answered, his Greek accent still noticeable after four decades in America. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
She wasn't.
But Dmitri had problems of his own, and Lashonda could see that.
Inside her locker, she kept a small photograph taped to the door. It showed her and Diane at Lashonda's high-school graduation 15 years earlier. They had squeezed together into the frame, laughing, with Diane's arm around her daughter's shoulders.
The burgundy coat was in the picture too.
Lashonda touched the photograph gently and closed the locker.
She tied on her apron, clipped the scratched and faded name tag to her uniform, and walked onto the floor.
Maria Rodriguez was already setting tables. Maria was a single mother of two who worked mornings so she could pick her children up from school in the afternoon. She and Lashonda had become close after years of shared early shifts and whispered conversations behind the counter.
"Girl, you look exhausted," Maria said.
"Didn't sleep great."
Maria raised an eyebrow.
"Have you ever slept great?"
Lashonda smiled.
"Not lately."
Tommy Bennett came through the back door a few minutes later, still looking half asleep. Tommy was 19, attending community college while working breakfast shifts to pay his way through school. Lashonda had taken him under her wing when he started six months earlier.
She taught him how to balance plates, read customers, remember regular orders, and keep smiling during shifts when everything seemed to be going wrong.
The morning rush started at seven.
Lashonda knew nearly every regular's order by memory.
Mr. Patterson wanted two eggs over easy, white toast, and black coffee. Mrs. Williams wanted oatmeal with brown sugar and hot tea. The construction crew from the site down the block ordered six breakfast specials with extra hash browns.
Lashonda moved through it all automatically.
Pour.
Smile.
Remember.
Carry.
Clear.
Refill.
But behind the routine, her mind kept running numbers.
Rent: $420.
Money available: $163.
Shortfall: $257.
If tips were good Friday and Saturday, and if Dmitri gave her a double shift Sunday, she might cover it.
Maybe.
At 11:30, during a brief lull, Dmitri called her into the kitchen.
His face looked different.
Drawn.
Worried.
"Lashonda, I need to tell you something," he said quietly. "But not today. Tomorrow. I'm having a meeting with everyone tomorrow morning."
Her stomach tightened.
"Dmitri, what's wrong?"
"Tomorrow," he said. "I promise."
A customer called for more coffee.
Lashonda grabbed the pot and returned to the floor, but Dmitri's face stayed in her thoughts for the rest of the shift.
She assumed Friday night would be quiet.
She thought she would close the diner, catch the last bus home, sleep a few hours, and wake up to another day of barely staying ahead.
She had no idea that within hours, everything would begin changing.
At 9:47 that night, a blizzard warning appeared on every phone inside the diner.
By 10:15, Market Street was almost empty.
The dinner rush had been steady but disappointing. Lashonda had earned $63 in tips.
Still not enough.