In the morning, Iola cooked Beverly an egg, sunny-side up. She made her toast. She cut the toast in half and buttered it. Beverly looked down at the blue plate with the toast and the egg on it, and the sentence that came into her head was “You can’t make me stay.”

She was getting ready to say those words out loud to Iola — you can’t make me stay — when Iola said, “Remember, tonight is bingo at the VFW.”

“You told me already,” said Beverly.

“I’m reminding you is all. You play for money, and that makes it exciting. You could win as much as fifty dollars.”

“Oh, boy,” said Beverly.

Nod was up on top of the refrigerator with his back to them. His tail was hanging down, twitching back and forth like a metronome. He was staring at the wall very intently.

“What were you doing standing over me last night?” said Beverly.

“I wasn’t standing over you, darling,” said Iola.

“Yes, you were,” said Beverly.

“You were dreaming.”

“I was not,” said Beverly.

Nod hopped down off the refrigerator and up onto the table.

“Shoo,” said Iola. She waved her hand in the direction of the cat, but he just sat there, staring at Beverly and her egg.

The radio was on, playing a mournful orchestrated version of some Beatles song.

“I got an idea,” said Iola. She sat down at the table across from Beverly. “Why don’t you and me trust each other like we said we would.”

“I never said I would trust you,” said Beverly.

“You didn’t say you wouldn’t,” said Iola. She smiled.

And that was how they left things.

Beverly put on her same clothes from the day before. She pinned her name tag on her shirt. Iola said, “Good luck, Bee-verl!” and Beverly walked down the ground-up seashell road of the Seahorse Court and up to A1A. She walked past the Seaside End. She walked across the parking lot of Mr. C’s and pulled on the door of the restaurant.

It was locked.

She had to knock on the door for a long time before Freddie came and opened it.

“We’re closed,” said Freddie. And then she said, “Oh, it’s you. I forgot about you.” She narrowed her eyes. “Weren’t you wearing exactly the same outfit yesterday?”

“It’s not an outfit,” said Beverly. “And so what if I was?”

Mr. Denby came out of the office. He was wearing another big tie. This one had a single blue fish on it.

Mr. Denby pointed a finger at Beverly. “You look familiar,” he said.

“You hired her,” said Freddie. “Yesterday. She’s busing tables. She’s not waiting tables. She’s busing them. And she has on the same clothes that she had on yesterday, which seems kind of gross if you ask me.”

Mr. Denby snapped his fingers. “You’re Beverly Anne,” he said.

“Right,” said Beverly. “I’m Beverly Anne.”

“Let’s get you an apron,” said Mr. Denby.

The apron was long and green. It had a big C on the front of it. Mr. Denby put the apron over Beverly’s head, and then tied it in the back. She could hear him humming. His breath came out in small gusts that smelled like toothpaste and fish.

“There you go,” said Mr. Denby. He patted her on the shoulder. “You’re all set. Freddie will show you the ropes. I’m going to head to the office and give my girls a call and wish them a happy Monday.”

“Today’s Tuesday,” said Freddie.

“Thank you, Freddie,” said Mr. Denby. He walked back to his office.

“Now,” said Freddie. She turned and looked at Beverly. “What happens is I wait on the tables, and you pick up the dirty dishes and put them in the bucket, and you take the bucket back to the kitchen and give it to Charles, who washes the dishes. Also, you fill up water glasses sometimes, if there’s not enough water in them. It’s not complicated. But the guy before you sure thought it was. What was his name? I can’t remember.”

“Right,” said Beverly.

“Listen,” said Freddie. “I have to tell you that I might be a waitress right now, but I also have a real job — modeling with the Klezmit Agency, which is a really famous agency and everything. Right now, I’m modeling underwear, but the underwear job will lead to modeling clothing, and the clothes-modeling job will lead to Hollywood once a movie director sees me in a magazine. So, what I’m saying is that I will not be a waitress forever, and maybe you could be the Mr. C’s waitress someday.”

Beverly stared at Freddie.

“What?” said Freddie. “You don’t believe me?”

“You model underwear?” said Beverly.

Freddie narrowed her eyes. She said, “What is your personal dream?”

“I don’t have a personal dream.”

“That right there is your mistake,” said Freddie. “That is dead-end, one-road thinking. You have to engage in open-ended, multi-road thinking.”

“Right,” said Beverly. “Where’s the bucket to put the dishes in?”

Freddie sighed. “Follow me.”

They went through the dining room with its blue chairs and blue tablecloths and its window onto the blue ocean, and through a swinging door into the kitchen.

“Okay,” said Freddie. “This is the kitchen. And that is Charles.” She pointed at a short, broad-shouldered man wearing a green knit cap.

“Hey,” said Charles. He looked up at Beverly and then down at the floor.

“Charles was a big-deal college football player,” said Freddie. “But then something happened, right?”

“Tore my tendon,” said Charles without looking up.

“Right,” said Freddie. “He tore his tendon and now he washes the dishes, and that’s the way life goes if you engage in dead-end, one-road thinking like I was just talking about earlier.”

“Charles does a lot more than wash the dishes,” said a gray-haired woman who was standing at the stove. “He does a whole lot of everything around here. Charles is indispensable. That’s what he is. And Charles is getting back on his feet. Right, Charles?”

“Right,” said Charles. “I guess.”

“That’s Doris,” said Freddie. “She’s the cook. She cooks the fish, so she thinks she’s in charge.” Freddie rolled her eyes. “Okay. Anyway. Charles and Doris, this is Beverly. She’s going to bus tables.”

Doris looked Beverly in the eye. Beverly stared back.

“Beverly,” said Doris.

“Right,” said Beverly.

“I had an aunt named Beverly. She was one smart cookie. You couldn’t get nothing past old Aunt Beverly. You be smart, too. Don’t let this Barbie doll here lie to you.”

“I haven’t lied to her about anything,” said Freddie. “I am a very truthful person.”

“Make sure she tips out with you is what I’m saying,” said Doris. “There needs to be some equity around here. Equity.”

Doris turned back to the stove. It was stainless steel, and so was the sink and the table and all the counters and the gigantic walk-in refrigerator. Everything in the kitchen shone with a muted silver light. And Doris stood at the stove in her white dress and white shoes as if she were a queen and all of it belonged to her.

The back door to the kitchen was propped open with a cement block. Hot air was coming in from outside, and a seagull was standing right outside the door, looking in at them, cocking his head from side to side.

Doris turned from the stove and snapped a towel in the direction of the bird. “Get!” she shouted.

The seagull flapped his wings. He rose, and then he settled back down in exactly the same spot and kept staring at them.

“Okay,” said Freddie. “Anyway. Here are the buckets you use for busing. Like I said, you pick up the dirty dishes and put them in the bucket, and you bring the dishes back here and Charles washes them. That’s how it works. It’s not complicated.”

“Yeah,” said Charles. He looked over at Doris. “That’s how it works. I guess.”

“That’s right,” said Doris. “That’s how it works. We don’t get paid enough to make it work. But that’s how it works for now.” And then without even turning around, she shouted, “Get on out of here!”

Beverly wasn’t sure who she was talking to.

But the seagull lifted both wings as if he intended to leave. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

And then he folded his wings and stayed where he was.