It’s a universal law: the customer wants the one item they can’t afford. I’ve been working at this diner for three years now. On the edge of Saturn’s farthest ring, I watch the rock shards tumble past our containment shields. The sun is so far away. “Serve me up some hash and grits, Sally.” Cletus hangs on the counter’s edge, his work sleeves rolled up. If we needed fresh ham, those forearms would do. Shipments from the terrestrial planets come in real slow.

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