The young man that had sat in the back and fidgeted through the briefing was one of the first out of his chair and out the door. Henry Graham made his way down the winding corridors, his head down, he had pulled a watch cap on, tugging it over his short hair. He walked with his shoulders hunched, his focus on the notepad in front of him that mapped the route down into the kitchens. When people passed him or looked at him, he averted his gaze. Old prison habits died hard. He half expected to feel someone's hand grab him by the shoulder and his steps were quick. 　

Henry still felt the queasiness from the cryosleep in addition to the knot of anxiety in his stomach after the announcement of the crimes and the unsealing of records. When he entered the cafeteria he looked around. It was a large room with nice dining tables and chairs, there were a few long tables and several round ones. Along the wall there were booths, the tables all had linens and thin vases with cut flowers. He gawked at it. It seemed more like a nice restaurant than an industrial cafeteria. Henry weaved through the tables, heading toward the line where people would get their food. The steam tables was loaded, waiting for the sleepers if any of them had appetites. There was a table with donuts, rolls, and other breakfast goodies and Henry glanced around furtively before snatching one of the croissants and slipping through the double doors. 　

The kitchen was as larger than any of the commercial kitchens he had worked in, it was more akin to the prison one but with much nicer appliances. There were a few people there, cleaning and prepping, ready to hand over the belly of the Copernicus to the third shift. 

"Hey, boy," a deep voice called out to him and he nearly jumped out of his skin. "You workin' down here? Better get your duds on." 

A large, heavyset black man gestured to the row of cooks jackets and white pants. He had the look of a former athlete run to fat, his arms huge and beefy with a generous gut. His head was shaved down and he wore a red bandana tied over it to keep the sweat out of his eyes. 

"Yeah, I'm working in the kitchen," Henry replied, tucking his notepad away. 

"I tell you, I ain't looking forward to this long trip," he said shaking his head, "It'll be like the Navy only we never get any shore leave." 

He chuckled good naturedly and went back to what he was doing. Henry merely nodded as he slipped on the oversized coat, rolling up the sleeves. Without looking up the man called out, "My name's Josiah, everyone calls me Josey. I'll be running this show down here. Keep on your toes and don't mess up, you'll be alright." 

Josey raised his spatula for emphasis, calling out to Henry over his shoulder, "What they call you then?" 

"I'm Henry," he said, glancing around and he spied the mess of tins and went to clean them up. "Is everything here canned or freeze dried?" 

"Nope, gotta us a good garden down there in the botanical area," Josey replied, "We get some fresh veggies and fruit at least twice a week. And the farm will give us fresh eggs for Sunday, I like to save 'em for baking during the week. I don't know about you, but I'd rather have me some fresh bread than a sunny side up every morning. We get meat too, once and while when they need to slaughter. Goat and cow's milk for butter and the like. It's not bad, at least according my list here made by the former chef. We'll see how it goes." 

Josey rattled on about all the dishes he could make with their finite supplies and Henry listened politely as he cleaned up the counters and washed the dishes. When it was spotless, he finally turned to the chef and asked what he wanted next. Josey turned around, raising his eyebrows and he whistled, "Damn boy, you done good. I like that. Fast and quiet. Go on and grab the mop and give the floors a once over and then you can help me set out eggs in the steam pan. These are powdered eggs, but they're not as bad as you might think. Scramble 'em up and be liberal with the butter flavoring." 

He grimaced slightly with another hearty chuckle. Henry smiled a little, unsure and still nervous but the big man seemed to not notice or he chose to ignore it. 

"Don't worry," he said, leaning back against the counter as he popped a roll in his mouth, "You're coworkers should be up here soon enough, leave them some work. I gotta line cook who once worked in the nicest restaurant in Denver and some girl they scraped up at the end to bus the tables. I bet you're wondering where they found me? Well, I was once a chef in Atlanta, had me my own place and we were busier than a two dollar whore house on payday."

He paused to laugh at his own joke, "Yep, I grew up in the business. Daddy had a barbeque joint and made some decent money. I played football at University of Georgia, was a linesman and got my degree in culinary arts and such. Not that it matters much now but those were good times. Never played professional ball, my knee was busted up. Hell, it hurt to stand in the kitchen all day but I got lucky. I had a brother in the army, see? And he tells me that this shit going down, this 'Change' ain't gonna end. So, he finds a way to get me on up to the Mountain. Mama's and Daddy been passed on for years so we didn't have that worry. Anyway, here I am. And my knee? Shoot, you better believe they got a doc here that fixed me right up. In fact, look here. See these gourmet coffee packets, these are for Doctor Brock only, I catch you in them I'll skin you, got it?" 

Henry listened and nodded as Josey rambled on and was glad for the man's talkative nature, it meant he did not have to speak. He wondered if Josey had read his file yet and was tactfully avoiding it or would it be a surprise. He pushed the mop vigorously, thinking about the one thing that frightened him. There was a girl that would be in the kitchen. He knew he would leave her be but if his record was known. He cringed slightly, rolling his neck to relieve the tension.