echoed the machine in the empty back room by the door as my employee identification card

swiped it.

It was a long walk to my car.

The restaurant I worked at was right on the beach, I mean, like basically on the water.

Maybe 200 feet of coast separated the mangrove from the Atlantic Ocean, or probably

even less. This meant I had to park pretty far away because the onlygrove from the Atlantic Ocean, or probably even less.

This meant I had to park pretty far away, because the only parking spots by the beach

were paid parking.

As usual, I wandered through the street-lit beach-side town across silent roads to my Toyota

Camry.

But don't let the silence and inactivity of tourists fool you.

An hour ago, I was up to my knees and orders, though we were only open till nine on Tuesdays.

And with the mangrove closed, pretty much everybody cleared off the beach.

After all, we were open later than anything else out there in my puny town.

I was still sweating from the busy night as I reached my car.

It was covered with due as the cool night air replaced the sweltering beachside heat of the

day, and I leaned against the driver's side, pulling out my tips from the night.

I thumbed through the bills, then added the tips I'd received on credit in my brain.

"'Hen74 bucks!'

I nodded, pleased. Pretty good. I stuffed it back in my brain. $174. I nodded, pleased.

Pretty good.

I stuffed it back in my apron and got in the car.

...