Minias turned back to the counter attendant and smiled. “Latte grande, double espresso, Italian blend. Light on the froth, extra cinnamon. Use whole milk. Not two percent or half-and-half. Whole milk. Put it in porcelain.”

“We can do that!” the kid behind the counter said enthusiastically, and I looked up. His voice sounded familiar. “And for you, ma’am?”

“Uh,” I stumbled, “coffee. Black. That’s it.”

Minias looked askance at me, his surprise clear even through his dark glasses, and the kid behind the counter blinked. “What kind?” he asked.

“Doesn’t matter.” I shifted from foot to foot. “Mom, what do you want?”

My mother cheerfully hustled back to the counter with Jenks on her shoulder. “I’ll have a Turkish espresso and a slice of that cheesecake if someone will share it with me.”

“I will,” Jenks sang out, startling the guy behind the register. He still had that paper clip sword with him, and it made me feel better.

My mom glanced at me, and when I nodded that I’d have some, too, she beamed. “I’ll have that, then. With forks for all of us.” She shyly looked to Minias, and the demon stepped back almost out of my peripheral vision.

The kid snuck glances at Jenks as he punched that in, announcing, “Fourteen eighty-five.”

“We have one more person here,” I said, trying not to frown, and Jenks landed on the counter with his hands on his hips. I hated it when people ignored him. And asking him to share simply because he wasn’t going to eat much was patronizing.

“I want an espresso,” he said proudly. “Black. But give me the domestic blend. That Turkish crap gives me the runs for a week.”

“TMI, Jenks,” I muttered while I yanked my shoulder bag forward. “Why don’t you find a table? Maybe a corner without a lot of people?”

“With your back to the wall. You got it,” he said, clearly doing better in the shop’s moist, balmy climate. A sustained temp below forty would send him into hibernation, and though Cincinnati was regularly hitting that after dark, the stump he and his huge family lived in would retain enough heat to keep them warm until almost mid-November. I was already dreading his brood moving into the church Ivy and I lived in, but they would not hibernate and risk Matalina, his ailing wife, dying of the cold. Jenks was why I wore the scarf; it wasn’t for my comfort.

Glad for the warmth of the shop myself, I unzipped my coat. I handed the kid a twenty, then dropped the change into the tip jar, making the businessman wait while I scribbled “client meeting” on the receipt and tucked it away.