She was twenty-six and kept the spreadsheet on a second monitor: 340 names, tip totals, birthdays, the dogs. Fourteen columns. She knew that the one in Norway needed greeting within ninety seconds of joining or he went quiet, and that the trucker tipped hardest at 3 a.m., and that neither of them wanted anything she could not do on camera.

She cleared eleven thousand in March and paid her mother's property taxes with it. The voice — bright, delighted, a half-step up — came out of her at the pharmacy counter in April, and again with the man she was seeing, in his kitchen, when he showed her something on his phone. She heard it happen. He said she was the warmest person he had ever met.