Leon Scott Kennedy

Working that miserable graveyard shift every night was beginning to take a toll on your health, and not just mentally.

Often, the people who came in to order at this hour were strange; judging wasn’t a great choice on your part, but the amount of scraggly men who came in and stared at you for longer than should be legal was startling.

Your social life was practically non-existent. Friends stopped reaching out when you could no longer attend their more expensive choices in activities. That French restaurant on the nice side of town was way out of your budget right now and sure enough that was the only place they seemed to go.

Money had been a reoccurring bite in the ass since graduating. No one was hiring, too much competition in the field. Your resume was fine—most likely just some corporate assholes reading your name and knowing you’re a woman or dismissing your application because you “lacked skills.” No one was wanting to train newbies, but that was the only way to get experience. Hence, the reason you began working shitty shifts at the 24/7 fast food joint you were at now.

It was slow today, allowing your mind to wander off to your rent for this month. It had been increased again and you’re sure that before long you might end up tossed out. The paychecks weren’t quite enough for groceries and rent and loan payments. You couldn’t starve, and you couldn’t avoid paying the government. Rent was the least concerning matter.

Earlier today you had been yelled at by a customer through the drive thru—some bum saying he didn’t get the right sandwich. The recipe said otherwise, but you just needed him off your ass.

You were so burnt out that you couldn’t even be mad. You didn’t retaliate. It was like defeat, but you simply did your job and left when morning came, when everyone else was waking up.

You were starting to really overthink your life when the door bells jingled. Most fast food restaurants closed their lobbies at this time, but not this one, of course!

You considered ducking back into the fryer area, attempting to force your coworker to deal with the customer, but his disapproving scrunch of the face convinced you otherwise. His locs following his movement of his disappointed head shake. He managed to guilt you into it—he always did.

Fixing your headset, you slowly made your way to the registers. You only took a quick sweeping look at the person, but the glance was enough to see his soft baby-face and the badge on his chest which contradicted it.

He was sweet when he ordered, smiling gently like he was attempting to disarm you. It was confusing enough that you had to inquire a little about him.

He was a rookie, he said. Brand new to the police force; he was very excited about the topic. While your coworker made his food, painfully slow as usual, you spent a few moments in small talk. Typically you despised this part, but he managed to wring some entertainment from you.

Now, like almost every other day, he was in the lobby again. It had been a month or two since he became a regular.

You’d taken some sort of liking to him, enjoying that still-present life in his eyes—not quite drained like yours. He was everything you’d failed to be. He had a genuine career, and an even more genuine sense of justice. He was a great man, one with a bright future.

He smiled at you, so sweet as he always did.

“Have we been friends long enough for you to know my order yet?” Came his teasing voice, and you were huffing a fake irritated noise as soon as he bothered to ask.

You did remember.

Your coworker, the same guy you always worked with, allowed you to sit with Leon while he ate. You listened to his stories, much less of a talker than he. But you liked it this way. He filled the quiet with his voice, and your brain was less strained by all the responsibilities you were failing to keep up with.

He didn’t know about your struggles yet. You hadn’t shared.

“I meant to bring you one of the donuts at the station,” he grins, one of those soft ones he always did, “don’t hate me for my inattention?”