“You do. It’s embarrassing. For me, mostly, because I have to watch.”
“I was recently assaulted. Maybe let me have dignity.”
“You had dignity yesterday. Today you have alien trouble.”
Before I can answer, Mr. Eddison calls from the corner booth, “Evie, you got any more coffee?”
“Yes,” I say, grateful for the escape. “And I’m charging you extra for rescuing me from Darlene.”
He chuckles. “Put it on my tab.”
“Your tab is a mythological beast.”
“Then slay it later.”
The evening crowd thins early because the weather turns meaner. Rain comes down hard enough to blur the street into molten reflections, and wind pushes water under the front door until I lay towels across the threshold. The heater struggles against the damp. The display case glows warmly, full of the last pastries of the day, while the mural on the wall seems softer in the low light, the painted Halo ring shining brighter than the real one outside.
At seven thirty, Renn comes in for soup to take home to his kids. He glances over his shoulder twice before the door closes.
“You see something?” I ask.
“Nah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Just Memories hanging around the transit office again.”
Darlene’s mouth tightens. “How many?”
“Four. Maybe five. Didn’t see Ron.”
The name makes the room feel colder. I have never met Ron Sanchez properly, but I know of him. Everyone in Halo does. Purple mohawk, tattoos, piercings, muscles, pretty smile, ugly soul. He leads the Poison Memories like a man auditioning for a larger throne than the neighborhood can offer.
I ladle soup into a sealed container. “They bother you?”
“Not tonight.”
“That doesn’t answer whether they tried.”
Renn gives me a tired smile. “They’re always trying, Evie.”
I set extra bread in the bag. He notices.
“I didn’t pay for that.”
“I know.”
He looks like he wants to argue, then looks too tired to do it. “You hear anything, you lock up.”
“That is becoming a popular suggestion.”
“Because some of us like having this place around.”
He leaves, and the bell sounds too bright behind him.
By eight fifteen, only three customers remain. Mrs. Pell sits near the window with tea. A young couple shares one plate of leftovers at the middle table. Mr. Eddison lingers over coffee he no longer wants because he does not like me closing alone. Darlene stacks clean cups with enough force to make each clink sound like punctuation.
“You should go home,” I tell Mr. Eddison.
He lifts his chin. “I am home.”
“That line is sweet enough to get you free pie if I weren’t already onto you.”
