Don't ever forget Sunshine's eggs. She's like a fighting wildcat if she doesn't get her eggs and they need to be done right. Sloppy in the middle, crusty around the rim. And the bacon? She likes it dripping wet, greasy and loaded with fat. She won't even touch her coffee unless it's as thick as crude oil. With all that, every morning for the last seventeen years, you'd think she'd be fat as a spring hog, but Miss Sunshine is the skinniest woman I've ever seen. Don't be fooled though. She's stronger than any of the young orderlies at Singleton Ridge.
"Brighton, you get in here with my breakfast," she yells at me each day at 6am sharp.
"I'm on my way, Miss Sunshine. You just sit tight."
If I'm not in there in under five minutes, she'll explode, rip the sheets off the bed and start screaming about God, the Devil and her dear old Daddy whose been dead for at least fifty years.
I've been at Singleton Ridge longer than anyone else. Most don't last a year. I thought Miss Sunshine would be dead long ago, but she keeps on. She'll most likely outlast me. There she is now, screaming for eggs.
"I'm coming Miss Sunshine, hold your horses."