(Excerpt from “Blue Harvest” Noah Keane)

“Are you planning your reputation three crises in the future, or our staff’s rent at the end of the month?” Léa asked.

“Both,” Mika said. “I don’t see why it has to be a choice.”

“That’s easy to say when you’re the one with your name on the door,” Léa said. “If we go under because you took a moral stand too early, my father will be fine. You’ll pick up consultancy gigs. The commis over there goes back to his parents’ flat. I go… what? Move in above the bistro and pretend that was the plan?”

Mika’s jaw tightened. “You think I’m not scared of losing this? You think I don’t see exactly how much of our lives are tied up in that stupid sign outside?”

“Then stop trying to knock out one of the few remaining pillars,” Léa said.

A chopping board clacked at the far end of the line. Hugo, the younger commis on veg, cleared his throat.

“Chef?” he said, eyes flicking between them. “Do you want the carrots in batons or rounds for the side on the fish?”

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