Patty Fries Fish

Patty spent most of her time in front of the stove, hair pulled back in a ponytail at the back of her neck. Pots and pans and kettles bubbled and popped and whistled in front of her throughout the day, in fact.

It's not what she came to do. She came to help with the huge construction work. Living on-site, building something groundbreaking—it sounded great to her. Her mom didn't like the idea, but when did her mom like anything? Dangerous, she had told Patty.

It wasn't dangerous for her. She knew every machine, every lever, every button. She could feel them, feel their power. She'd run her hand along the dash of one and sing lullabies to another, depending on what she felt they needed.

The guys looked at each other and laughed, but they couldn't argue that the woman got the job done. She was useful enough as a driver.

Then she stepped into the kitchen and made breakfast one morning. "Because I like mornings," she told them with a smile. With the first stack of pancakes, she became far more useful in the kitchen than anywhere else.

Over and over, they told her what a good cook she was, how much they appreciated her time and effort. Over and over, she asked when she could get back to driving, and they'd pat her absently on the shoulder and tell her "soon."

It was a Thursday morning when Patty decided to try a new recipe. She'd gotten the idea from a cookbook one of the boys had bought her—spicy fried fish.

Fish had never been on the menu or the shopping list. It wasn't practical for feeding this many people, after all. She wanted to at least do the best she could at this, if nothing else. Whatever you do, do it well, her dad used to say, and she would do this well.

While the guys were out working, she made herself a fishing line and marched out to the little pond she'd spied in the forest. She caught a bunch. They were smaller than she expected and didn't look like the ones at home, but they would do.

She filleted the fish just like her mom had taught her, made the batter, fried it up, and dished it out. It smelled great, but since Patty didn't like fish, she opted for a peanut butter sandwich.

The fish was a huge hit, right until the first guy keeled over. An hour later, two more joined him, rolling in agony and holding their stomachs.

They flew several helicopters in to get the men to the hospital until Patty and the boss, who always ate off-site, were the only two left standing.

"What the devil happened? What did they eat?" he asked her.

"Just some fried fish I made. Caught and cooked them myself, so they're as fresh as fresh can get. I guess I screwed up the recipe, though. I don't think they liked it."

"You caught the fish yourself? From where?"

"There's a little pond in the woods. The fish were a little small, but I managed."

"Patty, that pond—it's where we dump all of our waste!" the boss's face turned grayish green, and it took him a second to recover. "That fish was basically poison. I'm surprised there were any fish left at all."

"That must be why they looked so weird. Oh well, I'm glad I didn't eat any."

"You didn't?"

"Nah, don't like fish much."

"Well, Patty, you're the last man standing," he said, and then raised his eyebrows when he saw the young woman beaming at him.

"Does this mean I can drive?"

The expectation on her face made him laugh out loud, but when he had caught his breath, he answered: "I don't think they'll ask you to cook for them anymore, Patty."

To his surprise, she looked a little sad. "That's a shame," she said. "I make a mean pancake!"