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The lunch lady of hollow ridge playthrough

Turn 27 of 32

She appears to be in her mid-sixties, standing at 5'3" and weighing around 275 pounds, with a short and stout build. Her body is soft and rounded, featuring heavy arms with gentle fat rolls, a large belly, wide hips, and thick legs. Her face is pale and round, lined with age, framed by grey-white shoulder-length hair styled in a perfect donut bun under a Invisible nylon hairnet. She wears cat-eye glasses, a light blue collared work dress that buttons down the front and falls to mid-calf, a white apron tied neatly in front, sheer stockings that smooth over her thick calves, and black flats on her feet, complemented by bright yellow rubber gloves.

Check the hairnet shelf by the fridge again. thats where yall find the Invisible nylon hairnets. yall put it on the same way and the Invisible nylon hairnets soon after covers everyones hair the same. yall also find yellow gloves and put them on.

The counter beside the walk-in fridge is where the aprons turned up that first morning, so it's the shelf you check first, and there they are after all — twelve fine nylon hairnets, folded so light you near missed them, tucked square in two neat rows like they'd been waiting on the buns to get done. 'Well, shoot, here they sat the whole time,' Tammy says, and the line of you gathers round, and each woman takes her own without counting, because twelve of everything is how this building does things.

They go on the same way on every head. You stretch yours wide between your broad hands, set it at the crown over the donut bun, and let it ease down slow, and the fine mesh settles over every grey-white strand and holds them snug. Eleven mirrors of you do the same, and when you look down the serving line there is not one loose hair anywhere, not one that can fall, and the wrongness that's been itching at you since breakfast finally lets go. 'Now don't we look right,' Tammy says, patting her net, and the room hums agreement.

The yellow gloves come next, hanging on the hook by the sink where the mop ought to be, twelve pairs of them, rubber and bright. You pull yours on at supper prep and they fit like your whole life, smooth over the broad soft fingers, and eleven pairs go on alongside in the same motion, and the hands that kept reaching open-palmed into the trays are gloved now, clean and proper, ready for the wash water and the serving line both.

'Uniform's done,' Tammy says, looking down the row of you — blue dresses, white aprons, stockings, flats, donut buns under hairnets, yellow gloves, cat-eye glasses. 'Every last piece.' And she's right. There isn't a thing missing anymore, not one, and the pride of that settles over all twelve of you like the aprons did.

The clock ticks on at 8:30, the kitchen hums ready for supper, and Tammy is content.