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the overpowering relief of being rescued.
    She held out her hand and waited. What did she want, a high five? Money?
    “Your pants,” she whispered finally.
    I stared at the piss-soaked khakis on the ground. I didn’t ask what she was going to do with them when I handed them over, and I didn’t argue when she stuffed them into the garbage can. I just followed her out of the restroom.
    We rejoined the group together, as if nothing else needed to be said. And when she inexplicably saved the seat beside her on the bus back, I was too shocked to ask why.
    She didn’t tell a soul. I didn’t know why then, and I only sort of know why now.
    Lying in bed that night, I felt the change. Something had happened to me. I’d pivoted, and while one foot was still firmly planted in misery, the other was somewhere else. And the view from my new stance was not entirely desolate.
    I’d been saved.
    Only then did I realize I’d forgotten to say thank you.

Chapter 5
    Annie
    T hey all forget to say thank you. Every single kid who walks through the door manages to remember we have an unlimited sample policy, though. Sometimes a mom will squeeze out some gratitude with a nudge or a What do you say? after I’ve handed over twenty or so mini spoonfuls of custard, but in general, the adults don’t do much better.
    And in general, I just smile and keep scooping.
    But right now the smile is slipping. The arches of my feet ache, and my arm is burning, and I’m still several hours away from the end of my shift.
    Reed warned me when I clocked in this morning that it would be nuts. “Swim camp starts today,” he said.
    I continued wrapping the apron straps around my waist, double-knotting them in the front. “Okay.”
    “That means right after three it’ll get crazy.”
    “How crazy?” I stood watching him peel the brown wrapper from the coins, waiting to see if he’d say more, and noticing his paint-speckled hands. For a moment I thought he was an artist and felt almost giddy. I even opened my mouth to say something stupid, but then I remembered he’d mentioned painting his grandma’s house.
    “Really crazy,” he said, and let the curl of paper fall into the trash. The nickels clattered as he dumped them into the register.
    “Got it. Really crazy.”
    And right when I thought he was going to say more than a couple of words to me, he left to go turn the OPEN sign around and sweep the porch.
    A week of working side by side, and he still isn’t looking me in the eye.
    He was right about the crazy. Since 3:07 we’ve had a steady stream of overtired, undersupervised middle schoolers who reek of chlorine. The one in front of me now—a tubby little freckle-face with bloodshot eyes—looks unnaturally swollen, like he’s swallowed a gallon of pool water.
    I hold out his mint chip double scoop, and he stares at me like my head is on fire. He won’t even take the cone, but I keep my hand outstretched, smiling.
    “I said waffle cone!” he whines.
    He didn’t.
    His lip quivers, and I wonder for the thirtieth time today why I’m here and not answering the phone at my dad’s office, or even better, organizing the tubes of acrylic paint on display at Myrna’s Country Craft.
    Why did Lena choose this job? Wouldn’t she have rather worked for Dad too? But she and Dad argued a lot. That much I do remember. So maybe she didn’t want to make his coffee and take his messages and buy his socks. Their arguing—that was why the police spent so long calling her a runaway.
    Maybe she liked how custard makes people happy.
    The lips stops quivering, and the kid glares.
    Okay, makes some people happy.
    I exhale, grip the lip of the countertop with my free hand, and hold the smile. Soup is pretty chill, but the one thing he rants about is customer service, and I’m not losing my job over this little turd. Freckle-face sticks his lip out a little farther and sniffs. I blink, waiting with my arm out. If I stand here long enough, maybe he’ll take it