Abby

It takes a moment for me to process John’s words. I’m standing here, on the

subway platform, with my phone in my hand and my coffee in the other, feeling

like my life is spiraling out of control.

The buzz of the city, the sleepy commuters shuffling past me, and the distant

clatter of subway cars fade into the background as I realize my situation is

getting desperate.

“Okay, okay. Don’t panic, Abby,” I mutter to myself, opening my contacts to find

Anton’s number. Anton is a skilled chef, and he’s been working with me for a

little while now. He could fill in for John in a heartbeat, I’m sure of it.

Enter title…

for a

no other options right now, the clock is ticking, and Anton will be a shoein. The line rings, and with

even more tightly wound.

Anton answers. “Abby. What’s

“Anton, are you busy today? Specifically, in

couple of hours?”

sounds a little off,

it up to the early hour,

in a bind. John is really sick, like, food-poisoning sick,

sous chef for the cook-off. I know it’s super

for him? I-I’ll give

the line, just long enough for

coughs. It’s not a casual, just-woke-up kind

It’s a deep,

throat kind of cough.

are you okay?” I ask, my eyes widening, my voice

sudden spike of

throwing up all

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