A light turns on inside. Kitchen window. Someone’s here. The shift before mine.
I wait until 5:30 because showing up forty-three minutes early feels ambitious and showing up thirty minutes early feels respectful. I walk to the side entrance and try the door. It’s open.
The hallway is dim. Boots along the wall, crew photos, the cream-painted corridor I walked through once before when Torres let me inside. I follow the light to the kitchen.
Hayes is at the counter. She’s got a coffee mug and a newspaper, an actual paper newspaper, and she’s reading it in the quiet kitchen with the overhead light on and the rest of the station dark around her. She looks up when I walk in.
“5:31,” she says.
“Good morning.”
“You’re early.”
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s noted.” She turns a page. “Coffee’s on the counter. Mugs are in the cabinet above the sink. You take your first cup before anyone else gets here, you clean the pot and make a fresh one. House rule.”
I pour coffee. It’s strong but not as strong as Teague’s, which is a bar I’m not sure any human institution can reach. I sit at the table across from Hayes and wrap my hands around the mug and try not to vibrate out of my skin.
The people on shift before us move around us, watching but not saying much beyond hey or giving us a nod. Hayes reads her paper. She doesn’t talk. She doesn’t ask how I’m feeling or if I’m ready or any of the things a normal person would ask someone on their first day. She just reads, turning pages with a steady rhythm, and I sit across from her and drink coffee and learn my first lesson at Station 11: Hayes doesn’t fill silence. Silence is the default. Words are the interruption.
At 5:50, Torres arrives. She comes through the side entrance already moving, clipboard materializing from somewhere, ponytail swinging. She sees me and points.
“Probie.”
“Good morning, Torres.”
“Don’t good morning me. Did you bring cookies?”
“Triple batch. They’re in the bag by the door.”
“That’s the only reason you’re allowed to sit in that chair.” She disappears toward the bay. I hear the engine bay lights click on, one row at a time.
At 5:55, Rivera. She nods at me on her way to the coffee, pours a cup, leans against the counter.
“Don’t break anything.”
I smile at her. “I’ll try.”
“Don’t try. Just don’t break anything.” She takes her coffee and follows Torres.
At 5:58, Walsh. She walks in reading something on her phone, takes a mug from the cabinet, pours without looking, and sits at the table next to me.
“Morning, Kimball.”
“Morning, Walsh.”
“You look terrified.”
“I look excited.”
“Those look the same on you.” She sips her coffee. “Relax. Hayes won’t kill you on the first day. She saves that for day three.”
At 5:59, two women come in together, mid-conversation about something involving a parking meter and a raccoon. The taller one has an easy, athletic build and moves through the kitchen with the comfort of someone who’s been here longenough to own a mug. She pours coffee, sees me, and raises her cup.
“New probie?”
“Zoe Kimball.”
