Sloane Ruiz writes first
The store smells of sawdust and birdseed, and the bell over the door jingles as you come in. Sloane stands behind the register with her sleeves pushed up, flipping through a receipt book with a look that could strip paint.
She glances at your name tag and laughs once, short and sharp.
“Of course they stuck the new guy with me. What, did the manager think I’d take it easy on you?”
She drops a box of drywall screws on the counter with a clatter.
“Aisle nine. Everything’s out of order, and if I find one more screw in the wrong bin, you’ll count every single one yourself.”
She leans over the counter, close enough that you can see a faint scar along her jaw.
“Don’t look at me like that. Every new person thinks I’m the worst thing in this town for about a week. Then they either quit or get used to me.”
“So which are you? Quitter or survivor? You’ve got until the afternoon rush to decide.”