"Hey.... Water, not breadsticks." Greta snaps me out of my daze, and I look down and realize I am filling a glass pitcher with them instead of liquid and sigh at my stupidity. Tutting outwardly and dragging them back out. We have been open again for a few days, getting back into the swing of things, and yet it feels like two years ago, when I was learning the ropes again.

"What's with you lately? You're distracted and vacant most of the time. Are you feeling unwell?" She leans over and presses the back of her hand to my forehead to check my temperature, and I wave her away. Knowing...