Chapter Text
I was born in Vancouver, Canada, on March 20, 2000. We used to live in this tiny apartment that always felt one argument away from falling apart. Being an only child, I kinda lived in my own little world. All I really cared about was cooking. I wanted to be a chef so badly. I’d mess up the whole kitchen trying recipes I found online, pretending I was already in culinary school or something.
But life had other plans.
Right after I graduated high school, everything went to hell. My dad had a drug problem for years, something my mom and I kept quiet about because we didn’t want people back home thinking we failed. My parents came to Canada in pursuit of this big dream, you know? A Better life, more opportunities, and sending money back home. Everyone expected my dad to make it big or at least be stable. He was supposed to be the provider, the success story and honestly, that pressure crushed him. The drugs started as a ‘coping thing,’ something small, but they got worse. Much worse.
He changed. He wasn’t the same dad I grew up with. Some days, he was angry for no reason, and some days, he wouldn’t talk at all. My mom tried hard to keep things together, to keep me out of it, but you can’t hide that kind of stuff forever. Then one day he just… left. Took the last of our money and disappeared. No note, no call. Nothing.
That was the end of any idea of me going to culinary school. Someone had to bring in money, and that someone was me.
Now I work two jobs. My main one is at this warehouse, packing boxes for hours until my arms feel like noodles. It’s boring, it’s loud, and it’s not going anywhere, but it pays the bills. My second job is at a hotdog cart downtown called Downtown Dogs. It doesn’t pay much, but it fills the gaps. At this point, I barely have any free time, but my mom depends on me, so I just keep going.
Vancouver got too expensive for us, so we moved, about 48 minutes out, to a cheaper area. Cheaper than the shitty, rundown apartment we were already renting in the city. Cheaper because, well… it’s not exactly the safest place.
Sirens at night, sketchy neighbors, people arguing outside at two in the morning. The kind of place where you keep the blinds closed even during the day. It’s either that… or no home at all.
My mom, Hope, yeah, that’s actually her name, works as a housekeeper. It’s the only job she could get without any real education. It’s hard work. She comes home tired every day. Her hands are dry and cracked from cleaning supplies, but she still smiles at me like things are okay. I don’t even know how she does it after everything we’ve been through. Somehow, she still has that light in her.
Sometimes I think about the life my parents imagined when they came to Canada. I don’t think any of us expected it to turn out like this, but life has a way of playing tricks on us. Me working nonstop, my mom doing her best, and us trying to build a life out of whatever pieces we have left.
Whether I like it or not, this is where my story starts.
I woke up to the sound of my phone alarm buzzing beside me. 5:00 p.m. flashed on the screen.
I groaned, rolled onto my back, and lay there for a moment, trying to convince myself to move. After about five minutes of negotiating with my own body, I finally dragged myself out of bed to begin what I like to call my very productive evening.
I wandered into the kitchen planning to make myself a sandwich, only to find one already waiting for me on the counter, wrapped neatly with a sticky note attached.
-Enjoy the Sandwich, Luv, Mom
I chuckled under my breath and picked up the sandwich, along with the little savoury snack Mom had left beside it. Mom doesn’t usually get home until around 5:45 p.m., and that’s only if she’s not working overtime… which, lately, feels like wishful thinking. I always end up lecturing her about it. She’s 51 already, and I keep telling her she shouldn’t push herself. Every time, though, she just gives me that same look. A warm and stubborn smile that wrinkles the corners of her eyes, where she tells me she’s got “another 50 years left in her.”
At this point, I’m convinced I’ll be repeating this conversation with her until the end of time. Our little cycle of worry and reassurance. Me telling her to slow down, her telling me not to fuss. Both of us pretend the other isn’t secretly right.
I cradled the sandwich in both hands and walked toward the window. The sky outside was surprisingly clear, that soft golden hour glow bleeding gently across the neighbourhood. The weather was decent, unusually decent, actually.
Summer always feels like a quiet relief to me. Not because of the warmth, although that helps, but because it’s free of the two things I dislike most: rain… and snow. Especially snow. Nothing ruins a mood or a morning like waking up to that silent, freezing blanket of misery.
I took a slow bite of the sandwich, letting the familiar taste settle in.
5:45 p.m. flashes on my phone. Finally, shower time.
I head toward the bathroom. For the next fifteen minutes, it’s just me, hot water, and silence. Pure bliss. My one guaranteed pocket of peace. The moment the steam starts to rise, the world seems to fade out. No responsibilities. No expectations. Just me standing under the water, letting everything loosen and melt off my shoulders. It’s the only time I can really let myself think… or at least try to.
But thinking is tricky. The past is full of things that sting if I look at them too closely, and the future is a whole different kind of ache, too uncertain, too heavy, too loud. So I end up stuck somewhere in between, floating in this strange space where I’m not moving backward or forward. Just… existing.
A conundrum, I guess. One I still haven’t figured out how to solve.
Yet somehow standing there in the shower, letting the water beat down on me… it almost feels okay. Maybe I don’t need all the answers right now. Maybe surviving the moment is enough.
6:00 p.m. My phone alarm goes off again, the rude reminder that blissful time is officially over. I step out of the shower and dry off, the warmth fading fast. Then comes the uniform, the routine, the shift back into worker mode.
I stand in front of the mirror for a moment, adjusting my vest, smoothing my hair. My reflection looks tired, but familiar. At least that’s something.
I wander out into the “living room,” which is really just a generous name for the small space between the kitchen and the hallway. The worn-out couch, the one Mom and I rescued from a bargain bin years ago, sags under me as I sit down. It squeaks a little. I check the time again. 6:30 p.m. is my deadline, the moment I need to leave if I want even a chance of catching the bus on time. It’s a 21-minute drive, but an hour and 14 minutes by bus. A miracle of modern public transportation. Truly amazing.
The minutes inch closer, slow but steady, and I find myself just… sitting there, listening to the fridge hum, and staring at the door. Finally, the clock hits the mark. I stand, grab my bag, and slip on my shoes. Another night shift. Another commute. Another day where life keeps going.
7:55 p.m. Finally made it to work. The bus ride would’ve actually been peaceful if it weren’t for that dickhead who decided blasting a full movie on speaker was the best idea at rush hour. Nothing like unwanted surround sound to start the night shift.
I dropped my extra stuff inside my locker, slammed it shut and made my way to the break room. Most of the guys were already gathered around the table laughing, complaining, killing time before the shift officially began. Warehouse tradition, basically.
Then I noticed two pairs of eyes zeroing in on me.
“Hey, Freshman! Come here, buddy, I saved you a seat!”
The voice boomed through the room with a thick Indian accent, unmistakably Sameer’s.
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my mouth. I walked over and plopped down in the seat next to him.
“Sup, Sameer. How’s it going?”
Sameer grinned like he always does, wide, warm, and somehow loud even without sound. I like the guy. He was there for me on my very first day when I was 19, clueless, nervous, and apparently “fresh meat.” The nickname Freshman stuck instantly. Partly because I was the youngest worker here, and partly because warehouse guys love any excuse to bully someone affectionately.
Sameer’s always been the one constant around here. Kept me company during breaks, told me which supervisors to avoid, and shared his samosas with me even when he clearly wanted them for himself. He’s 43 now, with three kids and a fourth on the way. I genuinely don’t know how he manages it, the long shifts, the chaotic house, the same paycheck I get, but somehow he does.
I admire him, honestly. Just… don’t tell him that. He’d never let me hear the end of it.
“Ay, you making that face again. That unsure one. Like you don’t know where you going in life. Life has a plan, brother. Just be patience.”
“Thank you for the insight, Sameer, but this could also just be the face of excitement as I prepare for yet another 10-hour shift in this wonderful establishment,” I said, deadpan. “Honestly, I would’ve quit a long time ago if it weren’t for you… So thank you for making my life even more miserable than it already is.”
Sameer burst out laughing, “Ay, you funny boy,” he said, shaking his head.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small, a folded square of glossy paper. At first, I thought it was a receipt or some coupon he was hoarding, but then he opened it.
It was a picture. An ultrasound.
“Whoa… is that what I think it is?” I leaned in.
Sameer’s face lit up instantly, like someone flipped a switch inside him.
“Look at this,” he said proudly. “Another bundle of joy coming. See? See how cute he looks already? My wife, she couldn’t stop smiling when doctor show us this. Whole room shining, man.”
He held the picture out to me like it was treasure and honestly, to him, it was.
As I studied the ultrasound, another booming voice cut through the break room.
“What are the two infamous DEI hires from Pacific Fulfillment Centre looking at on this fine evening?”
I didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. I rolled my eyes anyway and turned toward Jack. “If anyone here is a DEI hire, it’s you, bro. You’re literally the only white guy working down here in packaging. All the other white guys are upstairs in offices with salaries that don’t make them cry every payday.”
Jack clutched his chest dramatically, staggering back like I’d shot an arrow straight into him. “Sticks and stones, Chris. Sticks and stones,” he said, then broke into a grin and raised a fist.
I bumped it first. Sameer bumped it after.
“Well, congratulations there, Sameer. Looks like your balls are still in excellent working condition. So tell me, man, when are you gonna stop? If this one’s finally a boy or what?”
Sameer snorted and tucked the picture back into his pocket with exaggerated care. “I’ll stop when you get a girlfriend, buddy. What are you now, 36? Come on, let me set you up with my cousin. Trust me, you will like her.”
Jack threw his hands up instantly. “No thanks. If she’s anything like you, I will gladly stay single for the rest of my life.”
Sameer gasped like he’d been offended on a spiritual level. I just shook my head, laughing. Same shit, different day.
I kept my eyes on the clock, watching the minutes crawl toward 8:30 p.m. so we could finally start this shift and get it over with. My mind drifted again, the usual floating feeling where I’m halfway in reality and halfway somewhere else entirely.
“…trust me, man, when I win the lottery, I will split the winnings with you two. 33 percent each.”
Jack’s voice snapped me back. I blinked at him. “Really? You’d do that? Wow, I guess I misjudged you, bro. That’s actually a sweet deal.”
Jack wiggled his eyebrows. “Yeah, yeah, but I’ll only do that if you two agree to split it the same way if one of YOU wins. Fair is fair.”
Sameer and I exchanged a look, the kind of look you give when you both know the odds are astronomically low but the idea is entertaining enough to humour.
We burst out laughing, nodding at the same time.
“Alright, whatever you say,” I told him. “It’s a deal.”
Jack grinned as he’d just signed a million-dollar contract.
Sameer patted him on the back. “Yes, yes, brother. When we become rich, the first thing we do is put you in a nice office upstairs, okay?”
“Are you kidding me?” Jack said, throwing his hands up. “If one of us wins the lottery, why would we still be here? We’re getting drunk and going to Hawaii for a month- no, a whole year. Then we start a business, make some passive income. We’ll do what those Vancouverite assholes do: buy up all the apartments and rent them out before the investors snatch everything. Chris, tell your people to chill, man, some people actually want affordable housing in the city without it costing an arm and a leg.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “I’m not Chinese, man. You seriously need to stop making that same joke.”
Jack smirked. “Eh, close enough. You got the face for it.”
Sameer smacked the back of Jack’s head. “Ay! Don’t be stupid, man.”
Jack rubbed the spot, laughing. “Ow, okay, okay! I’m joking, I’m joking.”
8:15 p.m. finally hits. Time to drag ourselves onto the floor.
We gathered by the entrance for the nightly briefing with the warehouse manager. The same reminders, the same warnings, the same “let’s stay safe out there, team” speech he gives every day. Like we’re a sports team instead of a bunch of tired people trying not to drop fifty-pound boxes on our feet.
Then comes stretching. Sameer always groans louder than anyone, Jack always shows off in front of the ladies, and I always zone out somewhere between the hamstring stretch and the shoulder roll.
Another 10 hours of this. 10 long, loud, fluorescent-lit hours.
Then I get to go home. Shower again. Eat something small. See if Mom made it back. Maybe sleep.
Relax, at least the version of relaxing that exists for someone working warehouse nights.
One shift at a time. That’s all I can do.
6:30 a.m. Ah, freedom. Work is finally done.
The second the clock hits the end of shift, the whole room shifts. Everyone moves faster, talks louder, like tired prisoners being released back into the wild. We all shuffle toward the lockers, grabbing our bags, our jackets, our dignity if we can still find it.
Sameer and Jack stop me right before the exit, both of them, with their keys already out, both offering me a ride home.
They do this every single day, and every single day, I give them the same answer.
“Nah, I’m good. I can’t rely on you two forever.”
They roll their eyes, but they let me go. Truth is, I don’t mind the bus ride. It’s quiet, it’s mindless, and it gives me time to decompress or stare out the window pretending I’m living a completely different life.
I wave them off and head to the stop.
Weekends are harder, though. Saturdays and Sundays, fewer buses. I get home way later than I should, and usually I’m lucky to squeeze out three hours of sleep, and that includes the nap I get on the bus. Then it’s right back up again to get ready for my second job: working at DownTown Dogs.
My little cart waits for me at the warehouse. Sometimes I imagine running my own hot dog stand, my own hours, my own profits, my own rules. However, the permits alone are enough to financially ruin me.
I hope that one of these days, I’ll actually hit the lottery… Yeah, right..
8:09 a.m. Made it home. I’ve got about 45 minutes to freshen up, check on Mom, make sure she’s okay, then maybe squeeze in one hour of sleep before heading to Vancouver for that 40-minute commute.
Always cutting it close, huh.
Sometimes I wonder why I even bother trying to sleep for just an hour or two when it takes me almost the same amount of time just to fall asleep. But I guess every little bit counts. Even scraps of rest feel like gold these days.
I walk quietly to Mom’s room and peek inside. She’s asleep, breathing softly, her hair a little messy, her face relaxed in a way I rarely get to see anymore. I lean down and give her a quick kiss on the cheek, gentle enough not to wake her, but enough so I feel like I’ve done my part.
I head back to the kitchen. Time to return the favour.
I grab the bread, the spreads, the fillings, all the things she likes, and make her a sandwich the same way she always makes mine. When I’m done, I wrap it up and place it carefully in the fridge with a little pride, like I’ve accomplished something meaningful in the middle of my sleep-deprived chaos.
A few hours pass in what barely counts as sleep. More like drifting in and out of consciousness, my brain refuses to fully shut down, no matter how much I beg it to. Eventually, the alarm I set for way-too-early starts buzzing, and I drag myself off the couch to get ready for the next shift.
I’m slipping on my shoes by the door when I hear a soft voice behind me.
“Chris…?”
I turn. Mom is standing in the hallway, still half-asleep, her hair sticking up on one side, her eyes squinting against the light. She looks so small when she’s just woken up, like the years haven’t quite settled on her yet.
“You’re heading out already?” she asks, rubbing her eyes.
“Yeah,” I whisper, trying not to sound as tired as I feel. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
She steps closer, reaching out to steady herself on the wall. “You didn’t. I just… I don’t like it when I miss you.”
She walks up and gives me a small hug. “Be safe today, okay?”
“Always.”
I open the door, sling my bag over my shoulder, and step out of the apartment. The morning breeze brushes against my face. Well, time to finish this day.
The ride to Vancouver blurs by in that half-awake haze where every street looks the same and every minute feels longer than it should. By the time I get off the bus, the city’s already buzzing.
I head toward the warehouse’s side entrance, the one they let me use to grab the hot dog cart. It’s not a long walk from my usual drop-off spot, but it’s not short either. Maybe three blocks. I finally reach the small loading bay. The metal door is half-open, just enough for sunlight to slip through. Inside, tucked in the corner like a forgotten child, sits my cart. My faithful partner in crime. The thing that keeps the lights on.
I grab the handle and roll it out onto the pavement. The wheels squeak, they always do, no matter how much oil I give them. I give it a small tap on the side, like coaxing an old friend awake.
“Alright, buddy, let’s make it through another day.”
The wheels rattle their familiar tune as I push the cart through downtown, past the cafés and office buildings. Finally, the warm gold lettering of The Meridian House Boutique Hotel comes into view. My usual spot is right out front. I pull the cart into position and lock the wheels. The morning sun hits the chrome surface, making it gleam. Time to set up.
I lift the side panels and secure the hinges; they always fight back a little. Then I unclip the umbrella, swing it up, and twist it into place until it casts a nice slice of shade across the cart.
Next comes the grill. I wipe it down, check the propane valve, tap the gauge, and fire it up. The flame sputters for a second before settling into a steady blue glow. Good. At least something today works on the first try.
I take out the tongs, spatula, and napkin dispenser, lining everything up the way I like it. I refill the condiments: mustard first, ketchup, relish, then the onions. Lastly, I flip the small handwritten sign that says:
DOWNTOWN DOGS| OPEN
“Time to work my magic.” The grill heats up fast, and the moment I lay the hot dogs down, they start to sizzle, releasing that smoky, familiar smell that drifts out into the street. Simple, comforting, the kind of scent people recognize instantly.
Next, I lower the cut peppers and onions into the fryer. It reacts with a sharp crackle, bubbling up as the vegetables soften and start to brown. The air fills with a mix of sweetness from the onions and a light roasted aroma from the peppers.
Between the steady sizzle of the grill and the popping of the fryer, the cart feels alive and it smells damn good.
12:00 p.m. Nice right on time for the lunchtime rush. I can already see people eyeing my cart from a distance, sniffing the air like bloodhounds who caught the scent of something good. Yeah, that’s right. Smell what the man is cookin’.
Oh yeah, come here, lady, I know you want this hot do- okay, nope. That sounded way wrong. Focus, Chris. Just grill.
I’m turning the dogs and checking the fryer when a man steps up to the cart. “Hey, how’s it going? Got any recs for me? This is my first time buying from you… or any cart, for that matter.”
I looked at the man with a smile and showed him the menu and described each one with great enthusiasm.
“The Classic Downtown Dog” $7.50
Beef hot dog with grilled onions, relish, mustard, ketchup, and crispy fried onions.
“Simple, reliable, the one everyone starts with.”
“The Meridian Spicy Brat” $9:50
Bratwurst topped with spicy fried peppers, pickled jalapeños, chipotle mayo.
“If you want heat, this is the one.”
“The Vancouver Chicken Griller” $9.00
Chicken sausage with fried onions and peppers, garlic aioli, cilantro
“Light, bright, and actually pretty refreshing.”
“The Garden Street Veggie Dog” $6.50
Vegetarian hot dog with caramelized onions, fried peppers, feta, and a drizzle of balsamic glaze.
“Vegetarian, but trust me, it’s got flavour.”
“The Maple Bacon Supreme” $10.00
Maple-infused pork sausage topped with thick-cut maple bacon, caramelized onions, cheddar cheese, and smoky BBQ sauce.
“Sweet, smoky, and the one everyone cheats their diet for.”
“Add-Ons”
Extra Bacon: $2.00
Extra Cheese: $1.00
Extra Onions/Peppers: $0.75
Make it a Combo (chips + drink): +$4.00
“Wow, all of them sound amazing,” the guy says, eyes scanning the board. “I think I’m gonna go big and get the Maple Bacon Supreme, please. Kinda steep for a hot dog, but I bet it’s worth it.”
“Okay, no problem, my man,” I say, grabbing a bun. “But since you’re a first-time customer, I’ll give you this one for 50% off.”
His eyes light up instantly. “Woah, seriously? That’s amazing, man. I’m definitely coming here during my lunch breaks.”
“Well, thank you for the support,” I say while loading the pork sausage onto the bun. “So, what’s your name?”
“It’s John. I work in the hotel building over there.” He jerks his thumb back toward The Meridian House. “I’m the receptionist. I’ve actually seen you around here on weekends, so I thought… why not try it today?”
I laugh. “Well, thank you for coming over, John and hey, I’m always here on wednesdays and the weekends, so come on over whenever you feel like you need one of the best hot dogs in downtown, alright?”
I hand him the finished dog, bacon stacked perfectly, cheese melted just right.
“Here you go. Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” he says, smiling as he walks away, already taking that first, tentative bite.
More customers start showing up until the whole front of The Meridian House turns into a steady stream of hungry people. My day gets busy fast, as usual. As tiring as it gets, this is my favourite part of the job.
The adrenaline hits first.
Then the rhythm settles in.
Grill sizzling, fryer popping, orders coming in rapid fire. My hands move on autopilot, buns here, sausages there. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, and somehow it feels perfect. For a few hours, nothing else exists except the heat, the smell, and the next person waiting for lunch.
I’m in the zone.
My only goal: make sure every person walking away from my cart gets the best damn hot dog they’ve had all week. Maybe even all month. Seeing people take that first bite, nod approvingly, or smile like they’ve been blessed by the hot dog gods… yeah, that part never gets old.
I love doing this.
I really do.
If it paid more, if life wasn’t so expensive, if I wasn’t juggling two jobs, if Vancouver rent wasn’t a villain-level threat, I’d do this full time in a heartbeat. But for now? This is enough.
Things finally calm down for a bit. The grill is quieter, the fryer’s not screaming at me, and for once I can breathe without someone yelling an order over my shoulder. I turn my attention to what’s left on the grill. Small, mindless movements that let me relax for a second.
Then another customer walks up.I glance up from the grill… and immediately notice he isn’t dressed like the others. Long, worn-down coat, ripped baggy pants, and t-shirt thin enough to feel the wind through.
Yeah. This man’s clearly homeless.
He studies the menu board, eyes darting from item to item, lips tightening the longer he looks. I hear the soft jangle of coins in his pocket, not many. Definitely not enough for my hot dogs.
He hesitates.
Then turns around to leave.
I let out a quiet sigh. “Ey, mister,” I call out. “Come back, you forgot something.”
He turns, confused. His eyes widen just a little when he sees me holding out a hot dog, fresh from the grill, wrapped neatly and ready to go.
“I’ll keep a secret if you will,” I say with a shrug, trying not to make it a big deal.
The man nods slowly. He takes the hot dog gently, both hands around it like he’s holding something fragile. He whispers the softest “Thank you,” barely audible, and starts walking. I watched him go for a moment then turn back to the grill.
“Wow how noble of you, if it were me, I would have just let him walked away.”
I turned to my left and saw a woman standing there.
“Woah,” I muttered before I could stop myself. This lady was… different. Not like the regular posh customers I get during lunch. She was like extra posh. Like she didn’t just own nice things, she probably owned the company that sold them.
Her outfit looked expensive, but I just knew my entire monthly salary wouldn’t cover the sleeve.
Not only that, she looks absolutely gorgeous. Her brunette hair is all shiny and perfect, her blue eyes look like they belong on a magazine cover, and her skin is so clear it’s like she’s never been stressed a day in her life. She definitely has that rich-people glow. The kind you only get from fancy water and face creams I can’t pronounce.
I realize I’ve probably been staring way too long, so I clear my throat and look away.
“Well,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I guess that’s the difference between you and me. Someone obviously from the top will never really know what it feels like to be at the bottom.” I gesture to the cart. “So… Do you want a hot dog, miss?”
She shakes her head. “No, not really. Last thing I want is to touch something greasy, no offense. And it’s Eliska.”
“None taken.” I lean back a little, wiping my hands on a napkin as she steps closer to the sidewalk. She’s staring up at the hotel’s sign like it’s a painting in a museum, brow slightly lifted, lips pressed together in that evaluating way people get when they’re trying to solve a problem.
I mean… yeah, the sign looks nice. Fancy gold lettering, backlit, nothing wild. But the way she looks at it? It’s like she’s breaking it into pieces only she can see. Like there’s a whole world of design and branding and whatever-else floating around in her head, and I’m just… not built to see it.
“What do you think?” She asks suddenly.
I blink. “What do you mean?”
She gestures toward the building, a small, elegant sweep of her hand. “The Meridiana Hotel. You’re here Wednesdays and weekends, right? I assume you know the area, work around the city, and meet a lot of people. So… what do you think of it? Does it stand out? Does it feel different from the other hotels? I want an outsider’s perspective.”
She says it calmly, professionally, but there’s a softness under it too. Like she actually cares what I think. Which is insane. A woman like her asking a guy like me? The cart guy?
And yet… she waits. Eyes on me, steady, patient. Like my answer matters.
I clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck. “Well… I mean, I hear things. Customers talk while they wait for their food.”
Her brows lift slightly. She’s actually listening.
“People say it’s one of the prettiest hotels downtown,” I continue. “The design, the lighting at night, the atmosphere and the rooms. They mention it’s surprisingly affordable for how fancy it looks. Good budget range, definitely not cheap, but not sell-your-soul expensive either.”
A faint smirk appears on her face.
“And honestly? People really like that they offer free breakfast. A lot of places downtown don’t. Tourists love that. Especially the ones traveling with families or who blew all their money on concert tickets.”
She lets out a soft exhale that might actually be a laugh. “And the hotspots around here help a lot,” I add. “Bars, shops, transit, this whole stretch is alive."
I lift my shoulders in a small shrug.
“Out of all the hotels around here? This is the one people talk about the most. The one they point at. The one they remember. It’s… honestly kind of perfect. To be fair I’m also here parked in front so I’m only ever going to hear is this one, haha.”
“That’s great to hear,” she says softly. “What about you? Have you ever stayed at this place?”
I look at her like she just told a joke. “Are you kidding me, lad- I mean, Eliska? Do you see where I work?” I gesture at the stainless-steel cart in front of me. “There are better things I could be spending my money on, and staying at that hotel is not one of them.”
“Fair enough,” she says with a small nod, like she already expected that answer.
I study her for a moment, curious. “Why are you asking anyway? Are you some kind of hotel-tourist enthusiast or something? Do you write blogs about fancy hotels around the world?”
Eliska chuckles. “No, not really, more like… I own the hotel. Well, one of four, technically. All around the province.”
I don’t even know what to say. This is the first time I’ve met a millionaire in person, at least one who isn’t behind tinted glass or sitting in the back of a black SUV. I know it’s stupid to treat it like seeing a celebrity, but still… It's kinda cool.
“Sooo, do you want to see my permit or something?”
Eliska laughs. “No need and besides, I got all the information I needed. Thank you for your time.” She turns as if she’s about to leave, then pauses. “Oh, actually, you know what. I might get that hot dog after all. Just give me the classic without relish and mustard, please.”
I grin without meaning to. “Coming right up. This one’ll be extra special just for you.”
I take my time making it, toast the bun perfectly, pick the juiciest sausage, wrap it neatly in foil, then slide it into a paper bag so no grease gets on the outside. For the first time ever, I’m nervous handing someone a hot dog.
“That’ll be $7.50, hope you enjoy it.”
She gives me this small, grateful smile and hands me three bills.
I look down. I see brown.
Three hundred dollars.
My brain stalls. Then panic kicks in. “Wait, no, no, no, Eliska, I can’t- this is too-”
But she’s already stepping away, giving me a playful wink. She turns around and heads toward her hotel with this clean, effortless stride, like she’s walking across a runway.
I just stood there, stunned.
Watching her go.
And, God help me, I know it immediately.
I’m whipped.
Well, fantasy over. Time to bring myself back to the warehouse. I lock up everything and get ready to head out, but then my phone starts ringing.
“Bossman.”
Uh-oh. What did I do now?
“Hello?”
“Christopher! How’s it going, my man? Doing good? Great!” He never waits for my answer. Not once.
“Okay, so I need a favour. I know you just finished your shift, but Mike said he can’t make it for the evening rush. Something about his mom, hospital, yadda yadda- whatever. Soooo… think you can pick up his shift?”
Seriously? I thought I could finally go home and sleep like a corpse. But eh… more money is better than no money.
“Sure, no problem, I’ll do it.”
“Beautiful! Don’t tell anyone, but you’re my best employee. Now go make those hot dogs and make me proud, my boy!”
He hangs up before I can even breathe.
I stare at the cart.
Well… I guess it’s time to go back and stock up.
9:55 p.m. I finally made it home. The moment I open the door, I smell dinner except it’s two hours old now.
I step inside and see mom on the couch, curled up under a blanket, the TV remote still in her hand. She must’ve tried to wait for me. I tried to stay awake. I crouch beside her and gently tap her shoulder. “Hey… come on, let’s get you to bed.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
Alright then.
I slip an arm under her knees and another behind her back, lifting her in a bridal carry. She’s warm and light and completely knocked out, head resting against my chest as I try to navigate the stupidly narrow hallway without smacking her into a wall.
Eventually I get her into the bedroom and settle her onto the mattress. She shifts a little, eyes barely opening.
A faint, sleepy whisper escapes her lips.
“...love you…”
Then she’s gone again, sinking back into sleep.
Well… time for a quick dinner before I pass out myself. I reheated whatever she made, savouring it. I turn on the news for some background noise, some random anchor talking about weather warnings or traffic I’m too exhausted to care about.
The tiredness hits me all at once, heavy and dull, settling into my bones.
I finally drag myself to my room, flick off the light, and collapse onto the bed. The moment my head hits the pillow, everything fades.
Sleep takes me before I can even finish the thought.