“That’s not bringing them business,” Hipster Glasses points out. “It’s taking business from them.”

“Evelynn, I’ll give you ten cents for the biscotti,” I blurt out.

“Twenty-five,” the guy interrupts.

Evelynn looks between us.

“Seventy-five,” I counter.

“The point is they’re free,” Evelynn says slowly. “Because they don’t taste very good.”

“This’ll just be for you, Evelynn,” I remark. “Under the table. No need to declare it.”

“Two dollars,” Mr. Moneybags says, pulling the cash out already. “Final offer.”

“The point is they’re free,” I protest. I can’t compete anymore. I need the two dollars for my bottomless cup of coffee.

Evelynn pulls the plate toward her.

“Great,” the guy fumes. “Now no one can have them and no one’s happy ever again!”

“Wow, okay. ‘Ever again’?”

With gloved hands, Evelynn breaks both bars of biscotti in half. She swipes two broken pieces into my open hands, and two broken pieces into his. Why did she break them in half first? Was it the only way she had of showing her anger? Was it so we’d both still get two pieces, shut our mouths, and go away? Or was she reminding us who has the power in this scenario? (Irrelevant, I know. But those are the details that make up a character. I take note of them whenever I can.)

Biscotti pieces and crumbs secure in my fist, I order a large Americano and place seventy-five cents in the tip jar since that’s what I’d bid during the auction. My cheeks feel warm and I avoid Evelynn’s gaze when she hands me my order. Dramatic Sex Hair McGee got to scurry off with his ill-gotten bounty after yelling at me, while I had to stay there and accept the annoyance pouring off Evelynn like a heat wave. I mumble a “thank you” and pivot away. I can feel her eyes on me as I walk to my large, lovely window table, and I don’t blame her. I set my coffee down and—

Are you freaking kidding me? There’s a bag on the opposite seat, the nice long bench against the window. My window.

It’s a messenger bag with a front Velcro flap, one of those bright, one-of-a-kind upcycled jobs from Switzerland or something, made up of rubber tarps and an old seat belt that goes across the shoulder and clasps at the collarbone. It’s morally superior to every other bag, which is the only reason to buy it, and now it gets my table, too. Whoever owns it is elsewhere, so I could technically . . . push the bag off the bench and pretend it fell and I never saw it. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. I look left and right and lean over with my combat boot to tip it when...

“That seat’s taken,” says a male voice.

I freeze, caught.