Stan scrubbed the grill. Out front, his brother, Georgie, made change for the last of the day’s customers. The bell over the door chimed.
“Thank Christ,” his brother said, as he came through the swinging door to the kitchen. He pulled the mop and bucket from the corner, and kicked it when one of the wheels stuck in a rut. Brown water sloshed over the bucket’s edge. Ignoring the outburst, Stan wiped down his station.
“You wouldn’t believe those last ones,” Georgie said, wringing out the mop. “Swear to God. We never should have bought this place. Nothing but trouble.”