The step stool was the white plastic kind, with a crack running down one leg.

Every time I leaned forward, it rocked to the left. I'd learned to keep my weight on my right foot, even though my toes had started to tingle an hour ago.

The sink came up higher than my elbows. To reach the bottom, I had to stand on my tiptoes and stretch my whole arm into the gray water until the suds touched my shoulder. The water was warm at first. Now it was just lukewarm and full of floating bits of egg and ketchup.

The plates kept coming.

Every few minutes someone set another stack on the counter next to me with a loud clunk, and I'd pick up the top one, scrub it with the yellow sponge, rinse it, and put it in the rack. The sponge dripped down my wrist and into the sleeve of my yellow dress, which was soaked now under the big apron.

My stomach growled. It had been growling since before the lunch rush.

I'd had half a piece of toast this morning. Harper had eaten the other half off my plate while Selena was doing her makeup, and nobody said anything.

One of the servers, a tall guy named Devon, swung through the kitchen door holding two plates up high. Chicken sandwiches with crispy edges, melted cheese sliding out the side, a pile of fries next to each one.

The smell hit me so hard my mouth filled with spit.

I watched them go all the way out the swinging door.

After Mom's funeral, I didn't eat anything for two days. Daddy finally carried me to the kitchen table and sat me on his lap. He cut my grilled cheese into little squares and held each one up to my mouth until I took a bite.

"You're never eating alone again, kiddo," he'd said. "Not while I'm around."

I rubbed my nose with the back of my wet hand and looked over at the desk by the walk-in fridge, where Owen was sitting with a clipboard.

Owen was the manager when Daddy wasn't here. He wore a black polo shirt and he always seemed like he was in a hurry, even when he was sitting down.

"Owen?"

He didn't look up.

"Owen. I'm hungry," I said, louder. "Can I please have my lunch now?"

He sighed and set down his pen.

"Not yet, Lucy."

"But it's past lunch. Everybody else ate."

"Selena told me before she left. All the plates get washed first. Then you eat." He tapped the clipboard. "Those were her exact words."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

I turned back to the sink. Then I looked up at the whiteboard on the wall, the one with my name on it.

This time I tried to read every line, sounding out the words in my head the way Mrs. Patel taught us in class.

*Wipe tables. Sort silverware. Wash plates. Clean back kitchen.*

Every one of them had LUCY written next to it in Selena's curly letters. Some of the other names on the board had numbers next to them, like *$12* and *$14.50*. Mine didn't have any numbers at all.

I thought about all the times Selena had smiled at me when Daddy was in the room. "Lucy's such a good little helper," she'd say, and squeeze my shoulder. Then as soon as he went out to the front, she'd point at the black trash bags by the back door. They were so heavy I had to drag them across the parking lot with both hands, and they left red lines across my palms that stung for hours.

Once I told her my arms hurt.

"Do you know how much it costs to feed you?" she'd said. "This restaurant pays for your clothes, your food, your bed. The least you can do is pull your weight."

I'd never told Daddy. I figured if he knew, he'd make her stop.

I looked at my hands now. My palms were pink and wrinkly from the water, and there was a red stripe across the middle of my right one from where the edge of the sink pressed into it.

Then I looked back up at the whiteboard. At the very bottom, under all the names, there was a signature in blue pen. Big and slanted, with a long tail on the end.

I knew that signature. It was on my permission slips. It was on my report card.

*Caleb Morgan.*

Daddy.

"Owen," I said. My voice wobbled. "Does Daddy know about the list?"

Owen picked up his pen again. "He signs off on the schedule every week."

"So he knows I'm doing all this?"

He finally looked at me, and for a second he seemed almost sorry. Then he looked away.

"Your father says helping the family is your responsibility," he said. "Now finish those plates."

I picked up the next one. It had a smear of mustard on it. I scrubbed it until my arm ached.

Owen's phone started ringing a little after three. It was the loud kind of ring, the video kind.

He answered it and held it out in front of him, and right away Harper's voice came screeching out.

"Daddy! Daddy, take my picture in front of the castle!"

I couldn't help it. I leaned so far over on the stool that it rocked hard to the left, and I had to grab the edge of the sink.

On the screen, there it was. The castle. It was blue and white and gold, with tall pointy towers, and it was so much bigger than the one Mom drew. Harper was standing in front of it in her sparkly pink dress, spinning in a circle.

On her head were my mouse ears.

The red bow. Mom's white L, right in the middle.

"Owen, I want to show Lucy!" Harper said, and the screen swung around as she grabbed the phone from someone. Her face filled up the whole thing. She was holding a giant striped box of popcorn against her chest.

"Hi, Lucy!" She stuffed a handful of popcorn in her mouth. "Are you still washing dishes?"

I didn't answer.

"She is," Owen said.

Harper giggled. Then the screen jerked again, and suddenly Daddy was there. He was wearing sunglasses pushed up on his head, and his face was red from the sun.

"Daddy," I said quickly, before he could disappear. "Daddy, can you bring me back a chocolate? Just a little one? A small one is okay."

Somewhere behind him, Selena laughed.

"If she really wants to eat, she should finish her work first," she said. "That's how it works in the real world."

Daddy frowned. Not at Selena. At me.

"Owen, I don't want to deal with this right now," he said. "Don't let restaurant stuff interrupt the trip."

"Daddy, I only—"

"Lucy, we're trying to enjoy our vacation. Stop bothering everyone."

The screen went black.

The plate in my hand slid right out of my fingers. It hit the water with a big splash, and soapy water sprayed up over the edge of the sink and onto my wrist. It stung. My wrist had been rubbing against the metal rim all day, and the skin there had gone bright red and raw.

I stood very still and waited for the stinging to stop.

Owen put his phone in his pocket and went back to his clipboard.

By the time the light coming through the little back window turned orange, my legs had started to shake. Not a lot. Just a tremble in my knees that wouldn't go away, even when I locked them. I had to hold onto the sink with one hand while I scrubbed with the other.

Marta noticed.

Marta was the cook who made the soups. She had gray streaks in her hair and a burn scar on her forearm, and she hummed when she chopped onions. She came over to the sink like she needed to rinse a ladle, and when she was right next to me, she pushed something into my hand under the water line.

A dinner roll. Soft and still a little warm.

"Quick," she whispered. "Eat it."

I took a big bite. It was the best thing I'd ever tasted.

"Lucy."

Owen was standing behind us.

I froze with my cheeks full.

"Selena said no extra food. You know that." He looked at Marta, and Marta looked at the floor. "Don't put me in this position, okay?"

I chewed and swallowed. It hurt going down.

When Owen walked away, I tucked the rest of the roll into the front pocket of my apron, way down at the bottom, and picked up the sponge again.

Then the dinner people started coming in.

I could hear them through the swinging door. Chairs scraping. Glasses clinking. Somebody laughing really loud. Devon kept bursting through with tubs full of dirty plates, and the stack beside me got higher and higher until it was taller than me, even standing on the stool.

I started counting so I wouldn't cry.

Fifty-four. Fifty-five. Fifty-six.

On fifty-seven, the old clock in the front dining room started to chime. I could hear it over everything. Bong. Bong. Bong.

I looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. The short hand was on the seven.

My stomach squeezed so hard I had to bend over the sink. The bread in my pocket pressed against my belly, and I wanted it so bad, but I didn't dare.

"Owen?" I said quietly. "When I finish today, can I have tomorrow off? Just tomorrow?"

He didn't even look up from his clipboard.

"No dinner until every plate is clean," he said. "That's what Selena says."

That wasn't what I'd asked. But I didn't ask again.

Through the round window in the swinging door, I could see the front entrance of the restaurant. The bell over the door jingled, and a family came in. A mom, a dad, and two kids. Then a couple holding hands. Then a man in a suit.

Four more plates. Six more. Seven.

The bell kept ringing.

I looked down at the mountain of dishes next to me, and then back at the door, and for the first time, I understood something I hadn't understood all day.

It didn't matter how fast I scrubbed.

The plates were never going to stop.

After ten o'clock, the bell over the front door stopped ringing.

I listened for it for a long time. Chairs got stacked on tables. Devon turned off the music in the dining room. Somebody laughed in the parking lot, and then a car drove away, and then it was quiet except for the dishwasher humming next to me.

I thought maybe I was finished.

Then Owen came through the swinging door pushing a gray cart. It was full of plates and bowls and the big metal trays they used for salad. He parked it right next to my stool.

"Last batch," he said. "Then you're done."

I looked at the cart. Then I looked at my hands.

My fingertips had gone white. Not pink like before, but white, like the skin belonged to somebody much older. When I pressed my thumb against my finger, it didn't feel like my finger. It felt like a rubber glove.

My feet hurt too. It was like I was standing on little rocks, even though there weren't any rocks on the stool. And my knees kept wobbling, like they wanted to fold up and sit down without asking me first.

On the shelf above the prep counter, behind a jar of peppercorns, I could see Mom's cookie tin.

It was yellow, with blue flowers on the lid and a dent on one corner from when I dropped it when I was four. Mom kept her recipe cards in there. Her chicken soup. Her lemon bars. Her pancakes with the cinnamon in them. She wrote every card herself, and on the bottom of each one she drew a little heart.

I wanted to touch it. Just to hold it for a minute.

I reached up, and the stool rocked so hard to the left that I grabbed the sink with both hands. My heart thumped in my ears.

I stayed where I was.

"Owen?" I picked up the first plate from the cart. It had dried gravy on it. "I only have a few more plates. Then I can eat, right?"

"That's the deal," he said, already walking back to his desk.

I scrubbed the gravy. It wouldn't come off. I scrubbed harder, and my arm shook, and the plate slipped and clanked against the bottom of the sink.

I stopped.

"Owen, can I call Daddy? Please?"

He looked at me over his clipboard.

"Just for one minute," I said. "I won't be loud. I promise."

He rubbed his eyes. For a second I thought he'd say no. Then he pulled his phone out, tapped it a few times, and held it out to me.

"One minute."

I wiped my hands on my apron, but the apron was wet too, so it didn't help. I held the phone with both hands because it felt heavy. Little bubbles of soap slid across the screen, right over Daddy's name.

First there was music. A happy song, the kind they play at Disney, with a lot of trumpets. Then people cheering. Then Daddy.

"Owen? What is it now?"

"It's me, Daddy."

There was a pause. The numbers on the screen kept counting. 0:07. 0:08.

"Lucy. It's late."

"I know." I squeezed the phone tighter. "I washed so many plates, Daddy. I counted. I got to a hundred and then I lost count. My hands really hurt. And I didn't have dinner. Or lunch. Only a little bit of bread."

"Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not. I'm telling the truth."

"Selena set up your schedule. She knows what you can handle." He sighed, the same sigh he did when the dishwasher broke. "You're making a big deal out of nothing."

I thought about the spring concert at school, when I sang in the front row and kept looking at the door. Daddy said he had a supplier meeting. I thought about Donuts with Dads, when Marta's son had to come with me so I wouldn't be the only one sitting alone.

Daddy was always too busy.

But he wasn't too busy to take Harper to see the castle for a whole weekend.

I put my hand in my apron pocket. The bread was still there. It wasn't soft anymore. It had gone hard around the edges, like a rock wrapped in a napkin.

"Daddy, could you just tell Owen I can eat now? Then I'll finish. I'll finish everything."

"How long are you going to keep this up, Lucy?"

My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"You're not a baby anymore, Lucy. If you want dinner, finish your chores."

The trumpet music came back. Harper yelled something about fireworks.

Then the call ended. The screen said 0:52.

I set the phone down on the counter. The soap bubbles had dried into little white circles on the glass.

I picked up the gravy plate again. One more. Just this one, then the next one, then the next one.

The light above the sink started to swing.

It was the round kind with the metal cover, and it was moving back and forth, back and forth, even though nobody touched it. I blinked to make it stop. It didn't. The whole kitchen tipped sideways, like the floor was a boat.

I held onto the sink. My fingers slipped on the wet edge.

My legs went soft.

I slid off the stool, slow, and my back bumped against something lumpy. A big paper sack. Flour. A white cloud puffed up next to my face and made me sneeze.

The floor tiles were cold. The cold went right through my wet dress and into my legs.

I'll just close my eyes for a minute, I thought. Just one minute. Then I'll get up.

The tiles felt nice against my cheek.

Somebody was saying my name.

"Lucy. Lucy, honey. Look at me."

I opened my eyes. Marta was crouching in front of me. She still had her hairnet on, and her hand was on my forehead. It felt warm and smelled like onions.

"Why are you lying here, sweetheart? What happened?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered. My tongue felt thick. "I didn't finish the plates. I'm not allowed to eat until they're all clean."

Marta's face did something strange. Her mouth pressed together, hard, and her eyes went red around the edges.

She didn't say anything. She just yanked off her work jacket, the white one with the stains on the sleeves, and wrapped it around me, right over the dirty apron. It was still warm from her. She tucked it under my chin.

Then she pulled out her phone.

"Marta," Owen said from somewhere behind her. "Let's not make this into a whole thing. Caleb will be back Monday—"

"Don't," she said, without turning around.

She held the phone to her ear. Her other hand stayed on my shoulder.

"Yes, hi. I need help. There's a child." Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. "She's six years old. She's been working here all day, and she hasn't had dinner. I need someone to help her."

She told them my name. Lucy Morgan. She told them the name of the restaurant and the street it was on, and she spelled it out slow.

Then she looked down at me.

"Honey, do you have anybody else? Grandma? An aunt? Anybody besides your dad?"

I thought about it.

Every year on my birthday, a box came in the mail. Last year it was a stuffed giraffe with a bow on its neck. The year before, a book about a girl who could talk to whales. The card always said the same thing at the bottom. *Love you to the moon, Aunt Viv.*

This year, no box came.

Selena said Aunt Vivian didn't like me anymore. She said Aunt Vivian only cared about Mom, and now that Mom was gone, she didn't want anything to do with us.

But Aunt Vivian had Mom's same laugh.

"Aunt Vivian," I said. "Mommy's sister."

Marta repeated it into the phone.

A little while later, Marta's phone rang again. The person on the line said they had reached Aunt Vivian and given her the restaurant address.

I don't know how long we waited. Marta sat on the floor next to me and held my hand. Owen paced by the fridge. Nobody washed any plates.

Then the back door opened.

A woman came in. She wore a long black coat that went almost to her ankles, and she was holding a brown leather folder against her chest. Her hair was dark like Mom's, pulled back tight.

She saw me on the floor, and she stopped walking.

Her eyes went to my hands. To the red stripe across my palm and the raw spot on my wrist where the sink had rubbed all day.

The folder dropped onto the counter.

She was on her knees in front of me before I could say anything, and then she was holding me. Her coat was cold from outside and smelled like rain. She held me so tight I could feel her heart going fast.

"Aunt Vivian?"

"I'm here, baby. I'm here."

I started crying. I tried to stop, but it kept coming out.

"I'm sorry," I said into her coat. "I didn't finish. There's still plates in the sink. I tried, I really tried—"

"Shh." She pressed her cheek against the top of my head. "You don't have to apologize for anything. Not one thing."

She held me for a long time. Then she lifted her head and looked past me, at Owen standing by the fridge.

When she spoke, her voice wasn't soft anymore. It was cold, colder than the floor tiles.

"Why is the little girl who owns this restaurant sleeping on its kitchen floor?"

Owen's face went pale.

I didn't understand. I pulled back a little so I could see her.

"Aunt Vivian," I whispered, "what do you mean? Daddy says this restaurant is his."

She looked down at me. Her eyes were wet, but her mouth was very straight.

"Oh, sweetheart. Your mommy never left this restaurant to your daddy."