It wasn’t the worst tip he’d ever received—not by a long shot—but today, it hit harder. Maybe because he was already on the edge. Maybe because he was running out of time. He tossed the bills into the tip jar without ceremony and turned away.
The bell above the café door jingled—again—and Andrew instinctively turned to greet the next customer. He caught sight of a man first. Tall, maybe late thirties, sharp-featured, and wearing a dark green bomber jacket. Behind him, two teenage girls followed—quiet, close together, their steps tight and uncertain.