"Hey, waitress," a truck driver with an Atlanta Braves baseball cap called. "I'd like a refill on this tea sometime today."

Liz glanced at the man. Civil, she told herself. Just be civil. The clock is ticking, and the shift will be over. And being civil means bigger tips.

"Yes sir," she replied, putting on a smile that was just as plastic and phony as one of the art deco rocket ships hanging on the wall. She snagged a bottle of ketchup from the empty table she passed and dropped it off at a table of teenagers who had already gone through two bottles. They didn't even look up to acknowledge her.

Terrific. If I can't get to something someone needs, everybody sees me. But the minute I get something right, it's like I'm the Invisible Girl.

Liz took a deep breath and let it out. She was experienced enough not to take too much to heart. She managed to take another order, a family of five with something special on each entree, then swept back toward the servers table to grab a pitcher of tea.

Maria was already there, stuffing her apron pockets with sugar and sweetener packets.

"So," Maria said, "do you think your mom is going to become a basket case?"

"That's real tactful." Liz stuffed another handful of paper-wrapped straws into her apron.

Maria glanced knowingly at the nearly filled-to-capacity restaurant. "We don't exactly have time for tact." She took a pot of decaffeinated coffee from the wanning plate. "So… we can either talk about the situation, or we can ignore it." Without another word, she stepped back into the dining area amid an immediate flurry of calls for her attention.

Liz attached the latest order to the spinner bolted on the pass-through window. Michael, dressed in an apron over jeans and a T-shirt, wielded a spatula and tongs with grim efficiency. He flipped a half-dozen burgers, then lifted a basket of fries from the deep fryer and swatted the annoying beeping timer in one move.