The Third Shift
Carrie leaned against the rail overlooking the empty blackjack tables. Downstairs, a janitor mopped the same stretch of floor he'd mopped for twenty years. Upstairs, in the employees' locker room, her old self hung like a discarded uniform—Carl's work boots still in the bottom of her locker, a reminder of where she'd walked from. ts carrie emberlyn
"Carrie," she whispered to herself, testing the weight of it. Still perfect. The Third Shift Carrie leaned against the rail
Carrie Emberlyn liked the quiet of the 3 a.m. security check. The casino floor below her was a graveyard of blinking lights and silenced slot machines. This was her third shift of the week—not a job, but a ritual. "Carrie," she whispered to herself, testing the weight of it
She pushed off the rail, straightened her blazer, and headed toward the break room. The coffee was hot. The night was long. And Carrie Emberlyn was exactly who she was supposed to be.
A slot machine on the floor below flickered to life—a glitch, probably. The reels spun on their own, then stopped on three cherries. No one was there to collect. Carrie smiled.