Second Helpings

Prologue

On particularly busy mornings, Silverman’s Deli sings.

Not literally, of course. The old building has its share of secrets, but Sam Adelson’s pretty sure no one’s ever come across a set of vocal cords.

He’d know: it’s his aunt Deb’s place, so Sam’s been visiting since he was a kid.

He’s also worked here and lived in the apartment upstairs since he was in high school, and after a decade of observation, he knows all of Silverman’s noises.

They’re so familiar that they’ve become part of him: every creak of the stairs, every piece of equipment’s associated thump or hum, every hiss and sizzle of each well-loved dish off a menu unchanged since his grandmother’s time.

No, the deli doesn’t really sing. Nobody but Sam could listen to the cacophony of a slammed Saturday and hear anything close to music.

Sam does, though. It might even be his favorite song.

Sam takes over for Joey at the register so they can go on break.

He cheerfully rings orders for a while, slapping together the occasional sandwich or pulling a container of potato salad out of the deli case, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Sam never feels so good as he does on mornings like this.

The pressure of the long line, the clamor of the kitchen through the serving window behind his head, has always thrummed through Sam like a metronome, keeping him steadily on beat in the present.

That’s where he’s safest, and where he belongs.

But today, as Sam glances up, his eyes catch on a head of brown hair outside, disappearing past the edge of the front window.

Instantly a scare chord crashes through the pleasant hum of his morning.

It’s so stupid—it was just the back of someone’s head, for crying out loud!

But for a second, there had been something familiar about it, and Sam had almost expected to see—

“Sam!” Jerking back to himself, Sam realizes the speaker is Joey, back from their break, who rolls their eyes and says, “I think that one’s good, boss. Very secure.”

Looking down at the paper-wrapped sandwich in his hands, Sam realizes he’s used enough masking tape on it to seal off roughly seventy additional Reubens, and has mummified this one.

He swallows and hands it over to the customer—she raises her eyebrows but thankfully doesn’t comment—and retreats to the kitchen, trying to sink back into the day’s rhythm.

Sam loves his work, his staff, this deli.

He’s skilled at what he does, and it feels worth doing.

He reminds himself as he hacks onions and celery apart that it’s good, this life he’s built.

He has his health, his family and friends, a great place to live, a dog with so much personality that he sometimes wants to accuse her of being a Muppet.

He’s happy, more or less, and Sam knows better than anyone that it’s more than he deserves.

So what if sometimes, when his guard’s down, Sam finds himself wandering the old, worn mental paths, and chasing rabbits he should have let run long ago? It’s nothing, that’s what it is. Sam’s sure it’s nothing at all.