I watched as Nicola's back left the main kitchen to climb the stairs and disappear towards the pastry section.

The chef clapped his hands. "Thirty minutes until service." His voice spread like a wave. He wasn't yelling, yet his words reached everyone, even me, who was squeezed into the corner between a worktable and a huge double sink.

The sous chef scrutinized me critically. "What's your name?"

"Gioele." Fortunately, that automatic "and you?" was cut off.

"Alright, clean these." Michela grabbed a crate from one of the tables and tossed it into my arms. I looked down at a multitude of alien carcasses, all eyes and whiskers and legs. Crustaceans weren't my strong suit. Especially large prawns. They had something unsettling about them.

"Get to work. Come on, boy."

Nobody called me boy. I wasn't a sailor from the thirties. I tucked my head between my shoulders and carried the heavy crate to the sink.

Okay. I remember how to do this. You remove the head, you remove the claws, and then you crush the shell with your thumbs, and when it's all smashed up, you slide away the squishy organism inside. It's a gruesome task.

My thumbs hurt after the first ten prawns. By the end of the crate, I couldn't feel my thumbs anymore. Crushing the shell was like trying to strangle a cactus.

Behind me, the kitchen was in turmoil. Service had begun.

The pale eyebrows of my station chef peered over my shoulder. The sous chef looked at the shelled prawns and made a face...

What? What's wrong?

She picked one up and turned it over, making the pieces of soggy skin flutter. Okay, maybe I'd overdone it a bit, the flesh had gotten a bit mushy, but it wasn't that bad.

"Do you know how to remove the gut, or are you going to butcher them completely?"

I was about to open my mouth to say something stupid like, "What gut?" but she stopped me before I could.

"Forget it. Go to the storeroom, go out the way you came in and climb the stairs. Pass the cells and get to the trolleys. On trolley number one, NUMBER ONE, for heaven's sake, you'll find a bunch of onions. Bring them here and get yourself in a corner to chop."

Oh, thank you, Lord. Did she want to keep me out of the way for the whole service? And who was I to say no? Chopping onions I could do, it was easy.

I left the kitchen and hurried up the stairs. At the end of the corridor were the storerooms, and immediately on the left...

Nico was radiant like a spring sunflower. The pastry chef was explaining something to him, pointing to a bowl and making grand gestures with his hands. Nicola stared at him as if he were showing him the Holy Grail.

The pastry chef finished his explanation, and Nicola nodded eagerly. That sight made my chest tighten. He was passionate, he put his heart into it, and I was just trying to survive. If only I could get passionate about something useful too, something other than Pokémon or nineties anime.

When I returned to the kitchen with the sack of onions, Michela glanced at me and, pursing her lips, shook her head between herself. What now? I got the onions. Didn't she want the onions? Maybe I had been too slow.

I placed the sack on one of the tables, but evidently I'd chosen the wrong table, because the woman with the pale eyebrows grabbed me by the arm and moved me to another counter.

"Don't stand in the middle."

Okay, okay, I shouldn't stand in the middle. But I needed to get a cutting board, and those were on the shelf under the table I'd just been kicked away from. The sous chef was right in the path between me and the cutting board, weaving between sizzling pans on the stoves and a counter full of slices of raw meat.

If I cut her off, she'd definitely have something to say. Could I go through the main dishes station? Since I'd be scolded anyway, I might as well try. The towering main dishes station chef seemed much more understanding than mine, she had even shaken my hand.

I slid along the sinks and tried to stay away from the flames as I encroached into the area.

"Did you get lost?" Rick darted past me, materializing next to the appetizer chef, then dashed off with three plates stacked on one arm and two on the other toward the pass at the opposite end of the kitchen. The pass was that table illuminated by heat lamps, which kept the dishes warm waiting for the waiter to serve them. It was the busiest and most chaotic spot in the kitchen.

Rick didn't set the plates on the heated table, as they were cold appetizers and it would make little sense to put them in heat. He stood there next to the swinging doors of the dining area like those of a saloon. It took a moment: a well-dressed waiter pushed the doors and quickly seized Rick's plates.

"Kid!" I startled. I'd been daydreaming. I was blocking the main passage of the kitchen, and Michela had already demoted me from boy to kid. I hurried to get back to the meat station, barely avoiding the chef who stood in the midst of everything, reading orders aloud and stroking his mustache. He was like an elm in the center of a forest.

"I told you to chop the onions." Michela hissed, quickly flipping two fillets of fish on the grill.

"I need a cutting board." I explained with a whiny voice as I bent down to retrieve my sweaty prize. "And I need a knife." I hugged the red polyethylene cutting board to my chest. I liked red cutting boards. "Where are the knives?"

The sous chef slammed down the slotted spatula she was using to flip the fillets and came towards me with a murderous look.

I squeaked, but not out loud. It was an inner squeak. An emotional squeak.

Michela grabbed me by the arm and dragged me back to the most secluded table of her station. She tore the cutting board from my arms and slammed it on the counter. Then she opened the drawer right under the table and pointed to the pile of butcher knives slumped inside.

I'd never been good at handling hostility. The thing is, when someone yells at me, I feel like crying; even when I'm angry and want to respond in kind. In fact, especially in those cases, I become a fountain.

Michela hadn't properly yelled at me yet, but that possibility was getting closer.

I bit my lips and lowered my eyes to try to restrain my reaction. Meanwhile, the sous chef had already returned to her work, leaving me in my corner.

It's not that bad, I tried to reassure myself, I just have to chop onions in this corner and no one will scold me. I opened the sack of onions, slipping my fingers into the net. I noticed they were trembling. And on top of that, my head was jamming. I kept hearing the last sentence I had spoken: "where are the knives? Where are the knives? Where are... where... where are... where are the knives?" Over and over, like a broken record. I waved a hand beside my face to try to straighten out my head. What do I need to do? What do I need to do? Cut the onions. To cut the onions, I need- where are the knives? I NEED TO CLEAN THE ONIONS. Shut up, brain. I need a serrated peeler, which is my favorite type of peeler. 

I opened the drawer again and retrieved the knife I needed. Then I pulled out all the onions from the sack. I should have taken a bowl. Actually, two bowls. I had no idea where they were. 

I glanced over my shoulder. The kitchen was in turmoil. Every cook moved like a busy ant. And like ants, they moved in lines, overlapped, and mixed. 

There was noise everywhere. 

Being closed in my head, I hadn't noticed, but now the crescendo of pots and the clattering of dishes was crashing into the kitchen like a raid.

Every sharp sound exploded left and right like hand grenades, making me jump at every bang, scratching my ears.

And as I tried to survive that minefield, Michela blocked my view. She opened her mouth and said: "[...] you can't [...], do you think [...]? [...] from underneath [...]."

I could only stare at her horrified. There was a bombardment in the background. How was I supposed to hear her?

I huddled into my shoulders. "What?"

Michela repeated the same thing, but she shouted it: "YOU CAN'T CHOP ONIONS WITHOUT BOWLS, WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO PUT THE WASTE?! GET THE BOWLS FROM UNDER THE COUNTER!"

In my defense, I didn't burst into tears. I bent down, slid the door, and pulled out two bowls, one for the peels and one to pile up the chopped onions. I placed them on the counter and turned my back to the sous chef. As I peeled the onions, I tried to shut my mind off in Avalon. I tried to visualize a wolf, any wolf, but with every call of "order!" that the chef shouted in the midst of the kitchen like a town crier, listing the customers' orders, I was abruptly brought back to the present.

When the onions were peeled of their brown skin, I started to cut them in half, then into julienne, and then chop them. I did it very slowly, even slower than my usual slowness. And I knew Michela wasn't going to be happy, but by that point, I figured nothing would make her happy, and I preferred to be left alone in that corner for as long as possible, rather than risk venturing back into the depths of the kitchen.

My eyes began to tear up as the irritating gas from the cut onions reached me. It wasn't as cathartic as I had hoped, it wasn't stress-induced crying, it was crying from having irritating gas in my eyes. It was very annoying, I had never gotten used to that sensation. My nose started to run, which, in the realm of unpleasant sensations, is the worst. I started to sway from foot to foot, rising on my toes, hunching my shoulders up and down. I felt all wrong. I had to rush to wash my hands and face, blow my nose with a piece of paper towel, and then wash my hands again with soap.

I couldn't hold the onions steady, the noise was driving me crazy, I felt tingling all over. I needed a narrow corner to hide in. Instead, I couldn't move, I was stuck at that table. I started to go "mmh... mmh..." with pursed lips.

The static sound of that mmh, always the same, was stabilizing. Since it was me emitting it, I could hear it in my head even with World War II all around.

After the onions, Manuel came to show me where all the cleaning products were and prepared a bowl with hot water and sanitizing soap. Then he put a sponge in my hand and told me which counter I should start cleaning.

A part of my brain (the one not doing "mmh") understood that if we were cleaning it meant that service was over, and that soon I could leave. Incredibly, that thought didn't help me much. My head was too messed up to feel relief. So I just rubbed counters, then scrubbed the stove and proceeded to burn myself ten times since I couldn't remember that the burners were still hot and kept passing over them with the sponge.

"You did well today, little one." Manuel said when we crossed paths at the sink at the end of the evening. I wasn't good at understanding when people were teasing me, but Manuel seemed kind, and even though I knew I hadn't been good, it made me feel better knowing that he took the trouble to lie.

Or he had decided that I was pathetic enough to deserve being taken under his wing, or he was teasing me and I couldn't understand it. I liked the first option better, so I decided it was the right one.

I should have said thank you, but I didn't say anything because I had long surpassed the ability to express myself like a human being.

The chef came to halt my work at ten sharp. Nico materialized next to me, I didn't even know from where. The chef said, "Tomorrow morning I need you to be here..." And then he said an hour that I immediately forgot.

Nicola said, "yes, chef!" with a satisfied smile, so he probably remembered the hour. That was enough for me.

I didn't say goodbye to anyone. I didn't wait for Nicola. I dragged myself out of the kitchen and then along the corridor of the killer clown. I reached the elevator, called it. I tiptoed up and down and took a deep breath. I pressed my palms against my eyes and swayed back and forth.

"How did it go?" Nico's voice asked. "Are you tired? You're hungry, right? You practically didn't eat anything."

I entered the elevator and pushed into the farthest corner. I never understood why putting children in the corner was considered a way to punish them... Having my face pressed against the gray of the elevator significantly lowered the rumble of the universe.

The elevator moved, went up, the doors opened without a ding, and then they started dinging nonstop in my head. "Gio? -ding- can go out and -ding- buy something to eat if -ding- you want, we just need to -ding- get back before -ding- midnight."

I dragged myself along the corridor and then to the door of our room. I lowered the handle but nothing happened. Right. The key. They had given us magnetic cards. Where were they? Did I have them? I wanted to sleep. I wanted a corner to hide in.

I swallowed a lump of saliva and the door magically opened. I didn't have magic saliva, it was that Nicola had taken out his card. He obviously remembered to bring it. He was happy, he had a great time. He was super perfect and I was a disaster.

I hated him a little, even though he was the only reason I could finally stumble to my bed.

I threw myself onto the bed, feeling the buttons of my jacket poking into my chest. I pressed my face into the pillow and I managed to burrow under the covers. I tucked my head under the pillow and finally I was covered, in the dark.

I opened the doors of Avalon and, for the first time all night, I managed to see something. It was a small, matted, almost fatally wounded wolf, dragging itself through the snow. It was cold, it was bleeding, but it kept going. It found a crevice between the rocks, and among them, under a thin layer of snow, the wolf's paws landed in a fox's den. The fox wasn't there, its smell was days old, so the wolf settled in. It curled up in that tight space, hiding its nose under its tail. The wolf took a deep breath, the wounds hurt less.

A pleasant sound made me perk up my ears. I recognized that sound. I pushed the covers down to peek outside. Nico had one of my cookie boxes in hand. He was shaking it.

I blinked realizing how heavy my eyelids were. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to eat. I was very hungry.

Nico sat on his bed, opened the box, tore off the plastic, and placed the cookies next to my head, on my pillow.

I reached out a hand and took two cookies, sliding them under the covers. I ate them with the method four, the one that allowed me to swallow the greatest quantity in the shortest time possible. Just after the first two, I felt a bit more lucid. I took more, poking out from under the covers and then going back under.

I ate until I felt my stomach full. Then I discovered that a hand was offering me my water bottle, and so I drank. Still tucked into bed, I got rid of the double-breasted jacket letting it fall to the floor. I remained in the tank top.

I fell asleep.