Her voice is laced with a tinge of empathy.
The bell from the cook signals that the next meal is ready.
“As you can see, I’m very short staffed,” she says, loading the next tray with practiced precision.
“And I could really use an extra pair of hands. Even just a kitchen hand. That's what I need most. Got any ID with your birthday on it?”
It kills me to say it.
“I don't.”
I wish more than ever that I did.
Maybe I can print something fake at the library.
“Can't help you mate, I'm sorry. Do you mind using the back door this time?”
She looks worn out, as though she hasn’t sat down in days.
And yet the conversation is clearly over.
???
I step outside onto the driveway, walking past a linen cupboard and a row of buckets.
The restaurant adjoins a small motel.
Comfy beds, cooked meals and hot showers.
Three things I very much crave.
But there's no chance in hell I’m going back to Jundah for my birth records.
If my mum even has them.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Without that stupid piece of paper, I’m screwed.
Nobody warned me that the outside world was paved in paper trails and red tape.
I circle the streets for more than an hour.
I’m starving but reluctant to open the packet of chips in case I wolf the whole lot.
Without a job, I’ll have to be extra careful rationing the little food I have left.
Either that, or steal it.
In hindsight, that tin of cold lentils on Mum's shelf doesn’t seem so bad.
It’s starting to cloud over a bit.
Hope it’s not too cold tonight.
Guess I’ll have to wear every item of clothing at once to fend off the chill.
Not too late to retrieve Dad's stinky shirt and beanie from the trash.
