"We’re running a business here, not a homeless shelter. My father has a soft heart for people like that, but we can’t always be taking in these misfits"
With his tallis and tefillin bag under his arm, Shmulik Michaeli strode toward the minimarket. He arrived at 6:30 precisely, opening the heavy padlock to the storage area and looking left and right for the worker who was supposed to be there for the morning shift.
No worker was anywhere in sight, and Shmulik tried to remember who’d been assigned to the shift. Dani had a wedding last night, and he’d asked for a later shift today. Muammar and Salam would come after lunch and stay until late at night for the deliveries. So who was supposed to be here? Itzik? Chuni?
Shmulik dragged the cases of milk inside. The first few customers were already there, picking out their groceries with swift precision. This wasn’t the hour for leisurely shoppers. Shmulik glanced at the schedule posted behind the counter. Under “Thursday, 6:30 a.m.,” two names were penned in clearly: “Shmulik and Bugi.”
Oh, so it was that new guy. Oof.
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