The bookstore-slash-café is surprisingly busy on weekend mornings, which I guess is why Beth Rinker, a.k.a. the owner of the Book and Bean, was kind enough to take me in when I came crawling back. It officially opens at 9:00 a.m. on Saturdays, but I get there at 8:00 a.m. to prep the machines and display cases and get brewing behind the café counter.

That hour is unexpectedly pleasant, with no noise but the hum of the coffee makers and the smooth thwack of Beth shifting books. It gets even better when I get to make myself a steaming hazelnut-scented mug of coffee and top it off with a dollop of whipped cream. For Beth, I make it black—“like my soul,” she instructed me when I first started. One of many reasons I love Beth.

There’s a small line of customers by a quarter after nine, most of whom I recognize from the past few weeks: Alice, the mom who brings her twin toddlers, and refers to her regular order of an enormous black coffee with two shots of espresso as her “life essence”; Dave, the guy who buys exactly one small coffee and sits hunched over his laptop nursing it for half my shift, writing what I’m pretty sure (and I hope) is a spy novel, judging by the websites I’ve seen open on his screen for research; a goth girl, who mumbled her name the first time and never bothered repeating it, but always gets something sugary and frothy; and some days (though not often, because my mom rarely spends money on anything frivolous), there’s my mom and her “surprise me” order, though we both know only the most bitter of drinks will do.

The guy at the front of the line now, despite looking familiar, is someone I’m pretty sure I’ve never served coffee to. I’ve got a pretty good memory for regular orders, but I’m drawing a blank on him.

“How can I help you?”

He holds up a book, and I recognize the illustrated cover immediately. “You recommended this book for my daughter the last time I was here, and I wanted to say thank you. She absolutely loved it and begged me to come back for the rest of the series.”