Gareth’s voice crackled over the headset. “Serina? You there? We’ve got a queue at the wine samples. Need a bobber.”
Serina stopped bobbing. For the first time in three years, her neck went rigid. “That’s not a real thing.” marks head bobbers serina
“No,” he said, leaning closer. His breath smelled of rain and rust. “You’re a head bobber. And I need you to nod for me one last time. To confirm that Starling’s Gloom existed. That my memory isn’t a lie.” Gareth’s voice crackled over the headset
The fluorescent lights of the Marks & Spencer food hall hummed a low, sterile tune. To Serina, it was the soundtrack of survival. She stood at the deli counter, a plastic visor pinning down her flyaway hair, a name badge clipped over her heart. We’ve got a queue at the wine samples
It wasn't an official title. It was the cruel nickname the floor managers used on their headsets. “We’ve got a slow patch on cheeses. Send a head bobber.” Serina knew this because once, Gareth from Bakery had left his earpiece on the counter. She heard her own description: “Reliable. Good for a nod. Makes the customer feel listened to without actually having to solve anything.”