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Lucky's is packed for a Wednesday. The AC quit around ten, and Fresno is still sitting at ninety-one degrees outside, so it's worse back here between the dish machine and the ice well. My braid is stuck to the back of my neck, and my feet hurt the way they always do around midnight.

Doug has been a regular since before I started here two years ago. He runs a tab that hits a few hundred bucks a week and calls every woman who works here sweetheart. Rick, our manager, has heard every complaint about him and done nothing, because Doug pays his tab and tips twenty percent. Rick left at six tonight for a barbecue at his brother-in-law's.

Twenty minutes after Doug's cab pulls away, I'm pouring a pitcher for the softball team when my hands start shaking. I set the pitcher down, press both palms flat against the cold steel of the ice well until they stop, and pick it back up.

At close, the bachelorettes leave fifty dollars under an empty shot glass, along with a napkin that says TINA in eyeliner. I laugh out loud, alone behind the bar, for the first time all night.

Rick comes in while I'm counting the drawer. He doesn't say hello. He just tips his head toward the office.

The office is a converted storage room with a desk, two filing cabinets, and a framed picture of Rick's boat. He doesn't ask me to sit down. There's a form on the desk, already filled out, and he turns it around so I can read it.

SUSPENSION NOTICE. Next to Reason, he's written: Physical altercation with customer.

"Doug called me from urgent care," Rick says. "His nose is broken."

"Doug grabbed me and dragged me across the bar." I hold up my wrist. There's a bruise coming up now, four dark ovals where his fingers were. "I told him to let go. Twice."

"Then you come get me."

"You were at your brother-in-law's barbecue."

He doesn't deny it. "You can't put your hands on a customer, Tara. I don't care what he did. He's talking about a lawyer."

"He's talking about a lawyer? He grabbed me."

"And you broke his face on my bar, in front of witnesses." Rick taps the form. "You're suspended through Sunday. When you come back, Kayla's got your Fridays."

Friday is my best night. Friday is half my rent. He knows that.

"For how long?"

"Until I say."

I think about walking out. I can picture it, dropping my apron on his desk and telling him exactly what he can do with his shit. It would feel incredible for about an hour, and then I'd go home to an apartment I can't pay for and a dog who still needs his medication.

So I sign the form. I press hard enough that the pen dents the desk underneath.

"You know, Tara, a little professionalism wouldn't kill you."

"Neither would telling a customer to keep his hands to himself."

"Watch your tone."

"My tone didn't break his nose."

"No," Rick says. "But it sure isn't helping you keep your job."

It's almost two by the time I get home. I rent the upstairs half of an old duplex off Blackstone, and the stairs up to my door are steep, outdoors, and lit by a single bulb.

There's a sheet of paper taped to my door.

I know what it is before I'm close enough to read it. I've been expecting it for two weeks. THREE-DAY NOTICE TO PAY RENT OR QUIT, with my name, my unit number, and the amount typed in a box: $2,340. That's the rest of May and all of June. Three days, and then my landlord can file.

I pull it off the door, fold it once, and unlock the deadbolt. Downstairs, the neighbors' TV is still going. If they came home before me, they've already read it.

Billy Bob starts baying before I get the door all the way open. It's a deep, ridiculous sound for a dog his size, and it's the best part of my day every single day. He comes down the ramp from the couch at a rolling trot, ears swinging, tail going so hard his whole back half wags with it, and shoves his nose into my shins, then my hands, then my work bag.

"Hi, baby. Hi. I know, I'm late."