The wooden floorboards groaned as the door swung open, admitting a group of four hikers. They didn't look like nature lovers; they looked like vultures. Dressed in expensive outdoor gear and smelling of cheap whiskey, they swaggered into the center of the room, kicking chairs aside.
"Hey! Anyone alive in this dump? We're starving!" said the leader, slamming his hand onto a table so hard the salt shakers jumped.
Helen approached them, her face a mask of weary professionalism. She tried to maintain that regal posture, but it was crumbling under the weight of their gaze.
"I'll be with you in a moment. Please, sit down and I'll bring the menus," said Helen.
"Forget the menus, sweetheart. Why don't you come over here and show us what else is on the 'frequent flyer' list? A woman like you shouldn't be wasting away in a desert kitchen," said one of the men, reaching out and grabbing her wrist, pulling her toward his lap.
