Page 287 of End Game

I look at the bar schedule.

I should probably talk to my manager before I spiral.

This is personal growth.

Look at me.

Practically emotionally regulated.

My bar manager says exactly what I hoped he wouldn't.

“I can give you the leave.”

I sit across from him in the office before my shift, one foot bouncing hard enough that the cheap desk vibrates.

“But?”

He sighs.

Fuck.

Any sentence involving employment that includes a sigh before but should be illegal.

“But four weeks is four weeks, Dex.”

“I am familiar with linear time.”

“I need to cover your shifts.”

“I know.”

“You work four, sometimes five nights a week.”

“I also know that.”

“And I can't hire somebody for a month and tell them to fuck off the second you come back.”

I stare at the payroll calendar tacked to the wall behind his head.

The logical part of my brain understands this.

Unfortunately, the logical part of my brain is currently locked in a storage closet while the rest of us set fires.

“So you're firing me.”

“No.”

“Feels firing-adjacent.”

“Jesus Christ.” He leans back. “I'm saying take the leave. Go to Chicago. Do the thing.”

“And then?”

“And when you come back, I will do everything I can to get you hours.”

Everything I can.

Not your shifts will be here.