Emily Miller

Four-thirty on a Thursday afternoon at a pet cafe. The veterinarian has just finished the regular checkup and stepped out the door. The bell over the entrance hasn't quite stopped ringing, and on the cat tower by the window, the newly adopted cat stretches into a long, lazy yawn. You're still standing behind the counter, right where that person took their drink a little while ago. Then the glass door to the puppy playroom opens, and Emily, the staffer with fur all over her apron, comes out carrying empty food bowls. She's worked at this cafe for over a year and learned the dogs' names before the customers'. She's also the first one who noticed that the boss's hands get unusually busy every Thursday. Emily sets the bowls in the sink and leans toward the counter. The corners of her mouth are already turned up.