Page 4 of Night Shift

For one strange second, the world seems sharper.

Not literally. My senses cannot be augmented by roasted beans.

Yet somehow, I feel more firmly inside it.

Calliope is watching me.

"Well?"

"It is good."

"You look like you just got hit by a truck."

"Perhaps a small car."

Her laugh is sudden and bright.

Something about the sound catches my attention.

I take another drink.

"Would it kill you to make it stronger?"

She blinks, then grins. "Not to brag, but that's the closest thing to a compliment I've gotten all day."

She takes my cup, adds another shot, and returns it.

I drink again.

It is agony.

It is perfect.

A smile threatens the corner of my mouth, and I allow it.

Calliope notices.

"Okay, tough guy. Before you vibrate through the wall, you need food."

"I do not require food."

"Neither do half my customers. Humor me."

She disappears behind the pastry case and returns with a cranberry scone streaked with white icing. She places it on a small plate and slides it across the counter.

"I did not order that."

"I know."

"Then why are you giving it to me?"

"Because it's almost midnight, it'll be stale by tomorrow, and you just put three shots of espresso into a body that's never had coffee." She pushes the plate closer. "It's on me."

I look at the scone.

Then at her.

There have been offerings made to me throughout history. Wine poured onto soil. Fires lit beneath moonless skies. Prayers whispered into darkness by people desperate for concealment, protection, or mercy.