The tornado siren rings, even in the basement.
Their bodies settle in, fill in the gaps, steer clear of the damp concrete wall. A sweaty arm brushes against a sweaty back.
The loud man jostles his way over to me. I realize I’m still wearing my apron.
“I spilled my cappuccino on the stairs.”
He expects me to say something. I keep my mouth pinched shut. I don’t want to have to deal with this. This should have been my break. I told you to leave your things behind.
Over his shoulder, I see a bald man hunched over a bagel like a squirrel. Do none of you understand tornadoes?
The floorboards groan over our heads. Wind howls in the ducts.
“I’ll be happy to give you a refund.”
He nods and squeezes between bodies around the basement, trying to find a cell signal.
I imagine walking back up the stairs. I picture the entire shop being blown away. Only the tip jar is left behind.
Sirens fill the basement and I’m on my break.