The Price of Doing Right

The back door swung open, letting in a draft of cold air. Phil stepped through, his coat unbuttoned and his work keys clutched tight in one hand. His shoulders slumped forward as he saw Rebecca, his eyes dropping to the floor before he managed to look at her.

“Phil?” Rebecca asked, setting Leo down on a stool. “What’s wrong?”

Phil rubbed the back of his neck, his face pale under the fluorescent lights. “Sam called the office twenty minutes ago.”

“Did he hear about the police?”

“He saw the security log,” Phil said. “He told me I’m done. Fired me on the spot for letting the police block the lot.”

Phil set the receiver back on the wall mount with a wooden clack. His shoulders sagged three inches lower than usual. He stood behind the cash register, staring at the little rubber mat where people left their change.

“He’s not taking you back,” Phil said.

Rebecca gripped the damp cloth she had been using to wipe down the counter. Her knuckles were yellowed under the cheap light. “I can work, Phil. The doctor said the stitches are fine as long as I don’t lift fifty pounds.”

“It’s not the stitches,” Phil said. He rubbed his face with both hands, his calloused palms squeaking against his stubble. “Sam called from his house in Phoenix. Said the cops being here ruined the breakfast rush. Said you attracted trouble, and he wants you off the schedule by noon.”

“You can’t let him do that,” Dale called out from booth three, his thumb poised over his phone screen. “She saved your whole damn parking lot.”

“I told him that,” Phil said quietly. He didn’t look up from the change mat. “I told him she came out here for an old man’s bike and got hit for her trouble. I told him if he fired her, he would have to find someone else to run this place on three hours’ sleep six days a week.”

Rebecca froze. “Phil, no.”

“He told me to leave my keys on the desk,” Phil said. He took a heavy ring of brass keys out of his pocket and dropped them onto the laminate wood. They hit with a sharp ring. “He’s flying in a shift lead from the highway location on Tuesday. Until then, he said the doors stay locked at night.”

The diner went dead quiet. Even the hum of the refrigerator seemed to drop an octave. Phil had managed the place for seven years. He was the one who fixed the coffee maker with bailing wire when the heating element snapped, and he was the one who let Rebecca keep Leo in the back booth on nights when her sitter flaked.

Rooster raised his mug, took a slow sip, and set it back down in the saucer without making a sound. He looked at the brass keys, then up at Phil.

“This Sam guy,” Rooster said. “He own the building, or just the business?”

Phil blinked. “Just the business. He leases the property.”

Rooster leaned back, his silver hair catching the fluorescent light. “Who owns the dirt?”

Dale pushed his cell phone across the booth. “You’re on the internet.”

Rebecca wiped her wet hands on her apron. “I don’t have time for the internet, Dale.”

“No, look.” He tapped the glass.

The clip was grainy, shot from behind the counter. There she was under the lot lights, swinging a rusty lug wrench into the asphalt. Sparks bit the dark. The video clipped to her yelling at the thieves, then cutting back inside as Leo started to wheeze.

The boy who took it had posted it three hours ago. The counter on the bottom read eighty thousand views.

Rebecca sat on the edge of the vinyl cushion. Her knee throbbed under her jeans. “Why would he put that up?”

“Look at the text under it,” Dale said.

Mama Bear stands off two men, the headline read. Below it, comments stacked up like junk mail. She ought to get a reward. Why was a kid in a diner at two in the morning? Call CPS. Give that woman a medal.

They didn’t know about the rent she owed. They didn’t know about the eleven dollars left for gas, or the empty inhaler rolling across dirty floorboards. They turned her into a hero or a bad mother because she held a piece of iron in the dark.

“People are sending money,” Dale said. “Some guy set up a page. It’s up to twelve hundred dollars.”

Rebecca stared at the red box on the screen. Twelve hundred dollars was two months of rent and two fresh inhalers. Her stomach dropped like she was falling off a curb. It felt wrong, even if she hadn’t asked for a cent.

“I don’t want people looking at me,” she said.

Rooster set two fresh mugs of coffee on the table. He didn’t look at the phone. “They aren’t looking at you, kid. They’re looking at something they wish they had the guts to do.”