The Last Order

At 2:07 in the afternoon, he wrung out the rag, draped it over the edge of the sink, and glanced at the clock on the wall. Two to three. According to the manager's schedule, that was the "off-peak window." In plain terms, probably no one would show up.

He propped his phone next to the register and started a song. On speaker. The place was empty anyway.

The store wasn't big. Seven steps from the counter to the back kitchen. He'd counted. Fryer, fridge, packing station, register, drink machine—all within those seven steps. Just right for one person. Two, and it got cramped.

The first order came in at 2:23. One burger, one cola. He made it, sent it out, and wiped the grease off the counter as he went. Hands steady enough.

At 2:37, the online-order alert beeped once. He glanced over. Two orders of fried chicken. He pulled the chicken pieces from the freezer, dropped them into the fry basket, and hit the timer. The fryer gave a sharp sizzle as the oil surface rippled with fine bubbles.

At 2:43, the alert went off again. This time three beeps in a row. Ding—ding—ding. He leaned in to look at the screen: three milk teas, one fries, one chicken burger. He ran the math. The chicken still had two minutes left, the teas had to be made fresh, and the fries could go in with the chicken. If he sequenced it right—chicken two minutes, fries three, teas one—the last order would be six minutes late.

He took a deep breath, the kind you take right before you sink underwater.

Teas first. Cups lined up, ice in, syrup in, milk in, seal. On the third cup, his hand slipped. The straw went in crooked, so he pulled it out and tried again. His fingers were oily, and the paper cup slid. He muttered something under his breath. Sounded like "tsk," or maybe "damn." Hard to tell. No one was listening anyway.

When the chicken came out, hot oil splattered onto the back of his hand. He flinched but didn't stop. He gave the basket two shakes, tipped the pieces into a paper box, dusted them with seasoning, snapped the lid shut, and slid it into the pickup window. Then he swung back to the burger. The bun popped up from the toaster. He caught it, burned his fingertips, dropped it onto the wrapper, and shook his hand twice.

The counter he'd just wiped was already greasy again.

That was when a customer appeared at the front. A man, early thirties, tapping his fingers on the counter, watching him rush.

"How much longer?" the man asked.

"Two minutes," he said, flipping the fries with a flick of the scoop.

"You said that two minutes ago."

He smiled. The smile stayed on his face for half a second. Then the man turned away, and his mouth dropped, like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river. He stared at the oil bubbles for a second. One popped. Then another.

Then he crouched down to grab a paper cup. As his knees bent, the muscles in his thighs suddenly gave. Not the ache of fatigue, but the slack of running out of battery. He braced one hand on the floor to push himself back up. When he straightened, his vision went dark. Not pitch black, more like the gray fuzz of a glitching screen. He pressed both palms flat on the counter and waited for his sight to come back. The countertop was cold. His fingers were hot. That boundary between ice and fire was the only thing telling him he was still standing.

He heard the customer walk away. The shuffle of slippers dragging across tile. He didn't look up.

The register screen lit up. New order.

He raised his eyes and moved his lips, as if he were about to say "another one?" or maybe "fine." But his vocal cords didn't vibrate. The syllable got stuck in his throat and never came out.

Then he noticed his knees were shaking. He tried shifting his weight to his left foot, but his left leg didn't catch it. He tried lifting his hands off the counter. He did, and his whole body tilted backward. He reached out to grab the fryer handle. Thirty centimeters away, but he couldn't reach it. Those thirty centimeters felt like they'd been stretched.

When the back of his head hit the shelf, he heard a thud. Not loud, like someone knocking on a door. A pack of napkins fell from the shelf and landed on his chest, very lightly, like a pat on his heart.

He lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. White ceiling. One of the lights was flickering. He couldn't tell if it was actually flickering or just his eyes. The napkin pack was still resting on his chest. He looked down at it—the store's own brand, green logo on white, one corner stained with grease.

He blinked slowly. The fryer was still hissing—zzzzz—oil burning empty. The delivery-platform alert went off again, but from a few meters away it sounded like it was coming up through water.

He didn't move.

When the napkin pack had fallen, it had flipped over. On the back was a block of tiny print: expiration date, manufacturer, customer service hotline. Packed so tight no one ever read it.

He turned his head sideways and pressed his cheek against the cool tile floor. The tiles were white, dusty, and there was a single fry lying in the corner, already cold.

He thought: when did that fry fall?

Thinking about the fry, he closed his eyes.

The fryer timer went off. Dee-dee-dee. Three beeps, then silence.

No one turned it off.