Seven dollars and eleven cents. Then she looked at Andrew. Not just looked—stared. It wasn’t shy or apologetic. It was deliberate. Her eyes locked on his, then drifted down to the check folder, then back to him. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t blinking. She was trying to say something without speaking.
The red-hoodie girl stood next to the man, frozen, watching her sister. The man turned and noticed her adding to the tip. He scoffed. “Generous much? I already tipped him,” he said, pulling his jacket tighter and heading for the door. “Let’s go.”