“They are surplus because I say they are.”
“Mrs. Pell.”
“Take the damn fruit, Evie.”
I take the fruit. “Thank you.”
She grips my hand, careful around the gauze. “They won’t win.”
The words nearly break me because they are too close to what I need to believe.
“No,” I say. “They won’t.”
Mr. Eddison arrives next, soaked and furious, with his cane in one hand and a little cloth bag in the other. He sets the bag on the counter. Inside are mismatched credits, ration chits, and old metal tokens from before Novaria standardized half its municipal systems.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Collection.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Mr. Eddison.”
He plants his cane against the floor. “Girl, don’t make an old man argue before coffee.”
“I am not taking emergency money from people who need it.”
“You’re taking repair money from people who need this place.”
The room behind him murmurs agreement.
I look at Darlene for rescue. She lifts both hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m with the mob on this one.”
“You are not supposed to call my customers a mob.”
“Fine. Charitable insurgency.”
A laugh moves through the room, small but real. It eases something in the walls. I take the bag because refusing would become its own kind of insult, but I tuck it under the counter without counting it.
“Thank you,” I say. “All of you.”
A dockworker near the door says, “Where’s the Vakutan?”
The room stills.
My hand tightens on the counter edge. “I don’t know.”
“Thought he’d be here.”
“So did I.”
Darlene pours coffee with her back turned. “Man’s probably out making himself a felony.”
“Darlene.”
“What? You think he went home to knit?”
