Steve splashed some whiskey into a glass, plopped in an ice cube, and waited. His bar was empty, the restaurant was empty, the kitchen was eerily quiet. Normally at this point, the guys on the line would be plating, frying, grilling, throwing duck under the salamander to reheat, swearing at each other in two or three languages.

Tonight, though…tonight it was dead.

Steve looked up at the host stand. Majel stood there, trying to get the last vestiges of grease pencil off the floor chart. In the back room, he saw Will and Chuck rolling silverware, four bus-tubs already full of napkin-encased utensils, neither man saying a word.

Outside, the rain sheeted down. A few cars rolled by, their wipers giving a desultory swipe every few seconds. The sidewalks, though, were clear. No pedestrians rushed by under their umbrellas, making for the movie theatre next door, no one peered at the hours posted in the window, no one looked in at all. Neon hummed and sizzled quietly.

Steve finished his drink and poured another.