The restaurant was only half full.
I could see several empty tables near the windows.
Behind a modern black hostess stand stood a young woman with blonde hair tied into a ponytail.
Madison.
She was looking at her phone.
When she finally raised her eyes, she examined my clothes and immediately frowned.
“Excuse me,” I said quietly. “Could I please get a bowl of soup and some water? I have four dollars.”
I opened my hand to show her the money.
She barely glanced at it.
“We’re fully booked.”
I looked toward the empty tables.
“What about those?”
“Reserved.”
“All of them?”
She sighed.
“Sir, there’s a fast-food place a few blocks away.”
I stood there feeling strangely invisible.
I had built this restaurant.
My mother’s photograph hung just a few feet away.
Yet the employee standing in front of me treated me as though I didn’t deserve to enter.
