The manager will see you never.

It's late. Wire's still going. Same four stories, pushed around the same puddle. A senator, a boat, a bridge that isn't, a number that's good for everyone except the people. I read them so you don't have to lie awake doing it yourself.

They asked me to write something about patience. Here's the thing about patience. It's the only product they never run out of. Everything else is backordered. The bridge, the refund, the report that's coming soon. But patience they'll ship you overnight, free, in bulk, forever. You ever notice you only get told to be patient about the stuff that isn't coming? Nobody tells you to be patient about the bill. The bill's always on time. The bill's the only one in this whole operation that shows up for its shift.

I've worked enough of these to know the tells. We hear you means it's filed. It's a process means there's a room, and the room's empty, and they leave the light on so the building looks staffed from the highway. Thoughts and prayers means somebody upstairs already priced out the alternative, and the alternative was you.

I'm not angry about it. Anger's for the day shift. They've still got the energy, God love them. Down here you take the name, log the hour, wipe the counter, and wait for the next poor bastard who wanders in at 3 a.m. genuinely expecting a manager, like the sign meant it.

Manager's not in. Manager was never in. Between you and me, I'm not sure there was ever a manager. Just this window, this counter, and whoever they could find willing to stand behind it and say soon with a straight face.

I'll be out back. Window's open. Doesn't do a damn thing. But it's open.