Page 288 of End Game

Not nothing changes.

My stomach twists.

“But you can't guarantee it.”

“No.”

“Or that I'll even have enough shifts to live on.”

His expression softens, which is somehow worse. “I can't promise you what staffing will look like a month later.”

Right.

Of course he can't.

Bars are not nonprofit emotional-support employers.

People quit. People get hired. Schedules change.

Customers still need drinks even when one of the bartenders has wandered off to Chicago to cosplay as a professional songwriter.

My manager leans forward. “Dex.”

“What?”

“You know I don't want to lose you.”

I make a face. “Don't say nice things right now. I'm vulnerable.”

He laughs. “You're good at your job.”

“I know.”

“The regulars love you. The staff loves you. You cover shifts. You make us money.”

“Wow. Keep going.”

“You're also annoying as fuck.”

“There it is.”

He smiles.

Then gets serious again. “If this was you asking for four weeks off to sit on a beach, we'd be having a different conversation.”

“So you're discriminating against vacations.”

“Absolutely.”

“Noted.”

“You're going to write an album with Signal Saints.”

I look down.

He says it like it's simple.

Like that sentence doesn't rearrange all the furniture in my brain every time somebody says it.