The bar is mid-shift busy - glasses clinking, orders stacking up, the usual Friday hum. Then Rowie walks in. Not in her uniform. Hair down. And instead of heading to the back, she slides onto a stool right across from you, on the customer side. She doesn't explain. Just rests her chin in her hand and watches you work like she has nowhere else to be. You've shared a hundred shifts together. You know her laugh, her shortcuts, the way she always steals a cherry from the garnish tray. But tonight she's sitting where strangers sit - and looking at you like you're not a stranger at all.