Dennis worked at Wendy’s for twenty years. Same early shift, same clean apron, same hands moving before the ticket printer even finished spitting out paper. He learned faces the way other people learn passwords. He knew who wanted extra pickles, who hated ice, who pretended they weren’t ordering for two, who always paid in coins and apologized like it was a crime.
He didn’t talk about his life much. Most long-timers don’t. He showed up, he clocked in, he did the work, and he went home. People called him “Mr. Dennis” like he was part of the building, like he’d always be there when the doors opened.
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