The check came to $74.52. He thanked them, cleared their plates with a practiced smile, and took the billfold once they were gone. His hand froze over the table. Inside were three crumpled dollar bills. That was it. Three bucks on a $75 bill. Not even five percent.
Andrew didn’t move for a moment. He just stood there, staring down at the folder like it had personally insulted him. His shoulders sank. He could feel the sting behind his eyes, but he blinked it away. This was becoming a pattern.
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.