Chapter 5: The Weight of Minimum Wage
Far from the manicured lawns of Westwood, Vanessa’s manicured nails were chipping away. Desperation had forced her into a uniform—a stained apron at a greasy 24-hour diner. Her bright pink blazers were replaced by a faded blue polo.
"Hey, blondie! You got my order wrong again!" a heavy-set customer yelled, slamming his fist on the sticky table. Vanessa froze. A year ago, she would have destroyed a man for speaking to her that way. Now, her job depended on her submission.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'll fix it." As she hurried back to the kitchen, tears pricked her eyes. She suddenly remembered screaming, “You dirty thief! Confess right now!” at a terrified teenage girl. The cosmic irony was not lost on her. The universe was forcing her to drink the exact poison she had poured for Lily.
