★NOAH★
The bus was supposed to arrive at 6:19.
It came at 6:31.
By the time I pushed through the kitchen door of Cozy Café, it was 6:47, and Maria was already moving toward me like she'd been waiting with that apron in her hand since dawn.
She shoved it into my chest before I could even drop my bag. "Tables four, seven, and twelve are waiting. Skip the attitude today."
I bristled, wanting to tell her that attitude was the only thing keeping me upright at this hour, but I swallowed it. I tied the apron strings behind my back, grabbed the nearest coffee pot, and moved.
The café was already drowning. Every stool at the counter taken, the window seats full, the low hum of conversation and clinking cutlery pressing in from all sides. I weaved through it on muscle memory alone, pot in one hand, order pad in the other.
The businessman at table four looked up as I approached. He tapped his watch. Once. Deliberately.
"Finally."
I filled his cup without stopping, without looking at him. "Sixteen minutes and you still get coffee before I do." I set the pot down just long enough to pull out my pad. "Perspective."
He didn't say anything after that.
★
The next morning.
The rush thinned somewhere between eight and nine. Not gone, but manageable.
That was when the regulars came in, the ones who moved through the door like they owned a quiet piece of the morning.
Mrs. Patterson took her usual seat by the window at 8:12 exactly. She ordered what she always ordered — two scrambled eggs, wheat toast, no butter, black coffee — and she would tip exactly seventeen percent when she left. I knew this because I had done the math once out of curiosity, and every time since it had been the same number down to the cent. I didn't know whether to find it impressive or exhausting.
I was thankful though.
The construction crew filed into the corner booth at half past eight. Four of them, loud in the comfortable way of people who have worked together long enough to stop pretending. They left napkins crumpled across the table like wreckage when they were done, but they tipped well, so I said nothing.
The one that slowed me down was the young woman near the back. She had tired eyes and a toddler in the seat across from her who was deeply committed to throwing pancakes at the wall. I watched a full one land near my shoe, and I crouched down to pick it up without comment. The mother started to apologize and I shook my head.
"It's fine."
I'd cleaned up worse for less money.
I was halfway back to the counter when I noticed the card sitting on the edge of her table. I picked it up, tucked it in my apron pocket, and brought it back to her. She looked at it like I'd handed her something she didn't realize she'd been missing.
"You left it," I said.
She blinked. "Thank you. Seriously, thank you."
I nodded and moved on. Small kindnesses cost nothing. I'd learned that from my grandmother, who gave them out freely even when she had nothing else left to give.
★
My break started at 10:15, and lasted just four minutes.
That was when my phone buzzed in my pocket. The screen lit up with a number I had saved under DO NOT ANSWER in all caps, like that would ever actually stop me.
I stepped out the back door and answered it.
The alley behind the café smelled like old grease and something worse. I leaned against the wall beside the dumpster and watched a pigeon on the ground nearby locked in serious combat with a discarded french fry.
"Mr. Moreau." The voice on the other end was smooth. Almost pleasant. I had always found that more unsettling than if they just sounded like what they were. "We're checking in about your father's outstanding balance."
"I sent payment on Tuesday," I said.
"Tuesday's payment covered the interest." A brief pause, just long enough to let that land. "The principal remains."
I watched the pigeon drag the french fry underneath a crate. It won. Good for it.
"I'll have more by Friday."
"Of course." Another pause. "We know where your grandmother lives, Noah. Just so we're clear."
The line went dead.
I stood there for a moment with the phone still against my ear, listening to nothing. Then I lowered it and stared at the screen until the backlight faded out.
My father had been dead for eight months. He left behind no savings, no property, no explanation, and approximately forty-three thousand dollars owed to people who made a point of knowing where old women lived.
He also left behind me, which some days felt like the worst of it.
I had been staring at the dumpster for thirty seconds when my phone buzzed again. This time it was Kira.
Kira: If ur dead tell me so i can claim the good towels
I exhaled through my nose. It wasn't quite a laugh but it was in the same neighborhood.
Me: Not dead. just wishing.
Her reply came back before I had even pocketed the phone.
Kira: Wishing what?
I looked at the question for a second. There were several honest answers. I didn't type any of them.
I put the phone away and went back inside.
The lunch crowd was already starting to build, the door swinging open every few minutes, the noise level climbing again. Maria was refilling the sugar dispensers at the counter and didn't look up when I passed.
I retied my apron, picked up a fresh pot, and moved back into the floor.
Sixteen minutes late and already it felt like the day had been going on forever. That was the thing no one warned you about when you were drowning — it wasn't the big waves that wore you down. It was just the water, constant and cold, every single day.
But you kept moving.
Because stopping wasn't something I could afford.