The receipt totaled ten dollars. The man had paid in cash—two bills and a curt “keep two”—before rising from the booth. But just as he turned away, one of the girls slid back into her seat and quietly added seven dollars and eleven cents to the tip. The final tip amount: $9.11.
Andrew watched as she stared at the check for a beat too long—then at him. Her eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. There was no smile, no casual thank-you. Just a deliberate glance between the money and his face. Then she rose, and the three of them walked out.
He stood frozen. Something twisted in his gut. The number lingered in his mind, unsettling in its precision. Nine-one-one. It wasn’t a tip—it was a message. And when she had looked at him, it hadn’t been fear she showed. It was a silent, desperate request: Do something.