It was the last hour of work. So close to finish. That’s when it all fell apart: when Brittany’s cell phone began to blare. Realizing she hadn’t turned it off, she panicked, lurching toward it in the midst of pouring a coffee and dribbling black liquid across her apron.

“Shit,” she whispered.

Glancing at the phone, she noted that her design school was the one on the other line. Giving a firm wave toward Sarah, she mouthed: “This can’t wait!” and then raced into the back room, which was miraculously void of Ian. He hadn’t yet returned from his delivery run.

“Hello?” Brittany said, her voice high-pitched. “This is Brittany.”

“Brittany, hello,” the woman began. She sounded synthetic, like the voice on an answering machine. “This is Deborah from the scholarship office. I need to tell you, we’ve noticed a discrepancy in your scholarship, and we need you to come directly to the office to get it worked out.”

“A discrepancy?” Brittany asked, slipping her fingers across the coffee stains. “That’s impossible. I gave you all the documents a few weeks ago. For the new semester?”

“Yes, the one that begins Monday. That’s the semester we don’t have funds for at this time,” the woman responded, smacking her lips slightly at the end of her sentence.

“Well, I’m telling you—I mean, could you please check again?” Brittany asked, becoming breathless. Sarah turned toward her from the register, bringing her eyebrows low over her eyes.

“If you could just do us the service of coming to our offices as soon as you can,” the woman continued. “Mr. Jennings, one of our scholarship managers, has a bit of time this afternoon, set aside for you. If you want to take it?”

“I’ll be there in 25 minutes,” Brittany boomed, feeling adrenaline course through her veins. “I’m sure it’s just a minor mistake.”

“Happens all the time,” the woman agreed, snapping the phone on her receiver.

As she explained her predicament to Sarah, she felt hot beads of sweat begin to course down her forehead. Sarah pointed toward the door, giving her head a quick twitch, and demanded: “Why haven’t you left yet? Go get that shit worked out, girl. I can sling coffee for your last hour alone. Seriously.”

After lending her best friend a final, gut-wrenching hug, she bolted from the door, finding traction on the sidewalk and running headlong toward the subway. After taking the steps two at a time, she met with the last seconds of the closing subway doors. Darting within, she narrowly missed crushing her arms in the gap—a moment of zeal and luck that would surely follow her into the scholarship offices.

“That was close,” a burdened-looking, 40-something woman whispered to her, giving her a wink.

“Tell me about it,” Brittany sighed.

The scholarship offices were on the far side of campus, tucked away in a stone building with stain glass windows—giving it a church-like appearance. At the front step, Brittany whipped her apron from her waist and stabbed it into her side bag, hoping she didn’t look as if she’d been sweltering in a café for the better part of the day. Giving a last glance into the small square of window on the door, she entered the building and gave her name to the bright-toothed, grey-haired woman at the front desk. The same one, incidentally, who’d called her.

“Good thing you came in right away,” the woman said, ringing Mr. Jennings with a firm press of a button. “He’s just had his lunch and should be ready to see you.”

The room reeked of sour cream and onion chips, making Brittany’s stomach squirm. Sitting across from Mr. Jennings, she watched as he dove through the various papers she’d signed, giving her the occasional ominous glance, and then burping half-heartedly into his hand.

Wonder what he had for lunch? Brittany said to herself, keeping her eye roll to herself.

“It’s just dried up, kid,” Mr. Jennings said then, his voice scratchy.

“But I sent in the paperwork. The state-funded scholarship?” Brittany began, remembering, with a stab of fear, that she hadn’t bothered to read all the fine print. Had she taken a misstep?

“That’s just not for people of your age. You have to be younger. And you just had a birthday a few weeks ago?” he said, glancing at the paperwork. “That’s right. And the other scholarships didn’t come through this year, because you’re in your second year. Just for first-year design students, unfortunately.”

“So you’re telling me that all of the scholarships I had last year are completely gone?” Brittany asked, aghast. She tossed forward, her large brown eyes wide and drying out. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Please be careful about your language in my offices,” Mr. Jennings said then. “I’m a Christian man and won’t stand for it.”

Brittany forced herself to take a long, easy breath. Still, anxiety fueled her, causing her fingers to quiver, her feet to clack together beneath the chair. “What does this mean?”

“Well,” Mr. Jennings said, eyeing her darkly. “This means that if you don’t find another way to get your tuition paid, you’re going to have to stop going to class.”

“But we’ve only just started the summer semester,” Brittany all but whispered, her voice raspy.

“And you’d better stop wasting your time,” he boomed back.

Despondent, her heart aching, Brittany excused herself from the offices, walking past the front desk with her head hung low. Reaching the exterior, she felt the sunbeam across her face, making her eyes glimmer with tears. Unsure of where else to go, who else to turn to, she found her steps tracing back toward the coffee shop—the one and only place she belonged, now. As she peered in through the window, she realized, with a lurch, that the coffee shop was in the midst of its after-work rush, a time she often had to stay late for, despite the ending of her shift, if only to help Sarah fulfill all the orders.

And today, in her place, stood Ian: wrangling lattes, cappuccinos, and flat whites, with flailing arms and a constant frown. Bolting through the crowd, Brittany found herself leaping over the counter and taking over at the espresso machine. Tears and sweat began to mix across her cheeks as she worked, fulfilling orders and listening to Ian’s commands: “Almond milk with this.” “Cappuccino.” “Americano, no milk.” “Soy. Come on, Brittany. Can’t you go any faster?”

Until, all at once, the crowd had depleted, leaving only their empty cups and plates and gleaming forks at the various booths and tables—and three exhausted, gasping people behind the counter, their knees wobbling and their skin reeking of coffee grounds.

“Wow. Good thing you got here when you did,” Sarah said, beaming toward Brittany. “Because I don’t think Ian and I could have clambered through that without you. Huh, Ian?”

Ian glowered down at Brittany. With two firm fists on either side of his waist, he cleared his throat. “And why on earth did you leave in the first place? You know you usually have to stay to help with the rush. You always do. Brittany, this was out of line.”

Brittany felt her lips part with confusion. After the conversation with Mr. Jennings at design school, she felt punched, smacked, still reeling.

“I’m sorry…” she whispered, her eyes hunting for something to latch onto. She couldn’t peer into his angry ones. Not now. “It was an emergency.”

“It can’t have been more of an emergency than the one here, at the shop,” Ian boomed. “If I can’t trust you, Brittany, then I think we have to do something about that.”

“Ian, you can trust me,” she stammered. “I’m not even going to school anymore. You won’t have to work around my schedule. It’s—it’s what you always wanted…”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. You, abandoning Blue Line like you did. It’s irresponsible. There are loads of other little, adorable girls like you out there, looking for a job like this. Working with artisanal coffee is their dream.”

Brittany held her eyes completely still, trying to ensure she didn’t roll them. As she hunted for the proper words to say—words that affirmed her greater love for artisanal coffee—she felt the tension release in the room around her. Her shoulders slumped forward. Oxygen became void in her lungs.

“I just don’t think this is working out anymore,” Ian said, speaking words like a former boyfriend. “I think you should hang up your apron and leave Blue Line for good.”

Aghast, Brittany stumbled forward, unlacing her apron from her waist and tossing it toward the corner. Glancing toward Sarah, who held her hands over her mouth, she gave a brief shrug, then tossed herself from the back of the counter, toward the door. Easing into the outdoors, she took a deep, horrible breath, realizing she was about to face her future alone, jobless, without an education. And she wasn’t entirely sure what it would look like.

But just across the street, a bar seemed to beckon. And so, barely checking both ways before, she crossed and hunted for the only thing that would give her solace: alcohol.