Mason pressed enter on his phone calculator once again. No matter which way he ran the numbers, he was short two hundred and sixteen dollars, eighty-nine cents. He grunted in frustration, bringing up his list of invoices. He had triple-checked the last thirty days. He’d have to dig deeper now.

As he checked through the month of October, Tristan waltzed into the garage floor, fifteen minutes past opening.

“You okay?” Mason looked up with concern to see Tristan had a bag from Uncle Juan’s Burrito Bonanza.

“Yeah, there was a line at the food truck,” Tristan explained defensively, as if Mason was the jerk for bringing up his tardiness.

Mason wished he had a more competent coworker, but he just couldn’t afford the drop-off in business if he had to do all the work himself. And scheduling interviews for replacements was tricky. They had lots of downtime, but it was unpredictable, and he couldn’t leave Tristan to tend to the shop while he interviewed someone else. Let alone how he would react to having his replacement interviewed in front of him.

Mason leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling fans far above him. Not for the first time he wondered what it would have been like if he’d bought the small property instead of the behemoth of a building meant for a large chain business. He’d put his two personal cars up in car lifts, just to fill up some of the space and make the place look busier.

Mason went back to his invoices, knowing if he’d gone for the smaller space he would have had no chance to expand. But looking through his invoices was a stark reminder that he needed to triple his business by spring. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the repayments. The weekly calls from Mr. Shapiro ‘just checking in’ weren’t helpful to Mason’s mental well-being either.

Mason had gone through so many invoices he actually closed the matching document, his brain recognizing the number a moment too late. He grimaced, reopening the document on his screen once more. Two hundred and sixteen dollars, eighty-nine cents.

It was for an old purple Beetle, from over three months ago Owned by Doris May, the lady who ran the local coffee shop, Grind.

Mason pushed his chair back as the smell of Tristan’s burrito wafted over. How his coworker could eat something packed with so many raw onions this early in the morning, Mason would never know.

Doris was sharp as a whip. Knew the regular orders for what seemed like hundreds of her customers. It wasn’t like her not to pay. Had they done a bad job?

Mason scrolled through the details. A standard emissions check, along with some other nips and tucks. He genuinely had no memory of servicing her car.

It started to make sense when he got to the bottom of the invoice. Tristan. His signature was at the bottom, the customer signature box empty.

Mason jumped up from his desk, opening the physical file cabinet by the wall. He quickly found the invoice now he knew the date. Sure enough, the paper had Tristan’s signature on it, nothing from Doris.

“Tristan McPoyle.” Mason glared over at his fellow mechanic, who swallowed his mouthful of burrito with a gulp. “Do you know anything about this unpaid invoice from Doris May? Dated over three months ago?”

“Oh, er…” Tristan began looking around the expansive garage, as if the answer might fall from the rafters.

“Doris’s purple Beetle. Practically as old as the town itself.” Mason folded up the invoice and pocketed it, stalking his way around to Tristan’s. The scrawny mechanic seemed to shrink in his chair as Mason approached.

“Oh, yeah, er… What had happened, you see, was that I—”

“Give it to me straight, McPoyle,” Mason ordered. He was tired of his bull.

“Urgh. I had finished the emissions check on her car. Then she got a call, her boyfriend or something was in the hospital! So she sped off.”

Mason remembered the trouble from a few months ago. She had actually shut the coffee shop early for the first time in living memory to go on her first date with Eddie. Then later that week the poor man had ended up in the hospital with a heart problem. Last he heard they were both healthy and happy.

“A tough situation, but why didn’t you tell me?” Mason asked. “If it were me, that would be the first thing I’d tell my manager. ‘Doris sped off because of a family emergency, so at some point, we just need to collect that bill.’ But instead you let it lie for three months?” Mason could feel the frustration building up in him.

“Don’t talk to me like that!” Tristan snapped back. Mason was stunned, unsure how Tristan felt he was being mistreated.

“Like what?” Mason asked, genuinely confused. “Explaining to you how you mishandled a situation? I’m not raising my voice. I’m not swearing at you—”

“You still can’t talk to me like that. You need to show me respect!” Tristan said. As far as Mason could tell, he wasn’t sorry at all for his mistake. He was more concerned about his hurt feelings. He wouldn’t get anywhere with this approach.

“That’s strike two,” Mason flat out told him, marching back over to his own desk and pulling out a pad of paper. He’d hoped to touch base with Rhys that morning, but a note would have to do.

“Well, what the fuck was strike number one!?” Tristan demanded.

Mason tore off the note for Rhys, folding it and leaving it on his desk, scrawling ‘For Rhys’ on the top. His temporary roommate should see the note and read it, no problem, hopefully interested in the places Mason had noted down.

He then grabbed his keys and headed out the door, noting that while Tristan demanded ‘respect,’ he would swear at Mason as naturally as breathing.

“Strike one was when you didn’t cut the ignition and Mr. Parker’s engine caught fire.”

“That was a one-time thing!” Tristan slumped in his chair like a sulking toddler as Mason headed out the door.

“I’ll put the warning in writing when I get back. Now I’m gonna have to go hound an old lady for a months-old bill. Look after the shop.” Mason stormed out the door, jumping into his tow truck before heading out into the town of Hidden Creek.

Only after three blocks did Mason realize he was driving in entirely the wrong direction. He was heading on autopilot to the Hidden Creek Community College (H Triple C as the kids liked to call it), where he’d taken his business courses before opening shop.

Mason started his right-hand turns to get him back on course, circling the block. Not only was Tristan’s inability to accept his mistakes horrendously frustrating, but Doris was also one of the most frightening people that Mason knew. Everyone understood deep down she cared, but she had zero tolerance for bullshit.

After battling through the end of rush hour traffic to get to the other side of town, Mason pulled up to Grind, the coffee shop run and owned by Doris May. He hopped out of his tow truck and tentatively approached the entrance, as if Doris might pounce out the front door.

Mason entered the shop, the bell dinging above him as he joined the line of customers. It looked like the tail end of the morning rush, numerous office workers looking to grab their cup of coffee before driving to the offices further up Victory Boulevard.

There was no one behind him as Mason arrived at the counter. Doris craned her neck to look up at him. Old age may have dulled her body, but not her wits.

“Mason O’Neil, it’s a little early for a triple red-eye,” she said, grinning up at him.

Mason couldn’t help but chuckle. During his classes, he’d often grabbed the highly caffeinated coffee before settling down to study some evenings in her shop. He found it better to focus with other people around.

He realized how different his life was now. Socket was waiting for him at home. And Rhys for the next few days. No more empty apartment for him.

“Actually, ma’am—”

“Doris,” she sternly corrected him.

“I need to have a quick word.” Mason could feel himself clenching up with nerves. He knew it was illogical, but his entire adult life he’d felt bad asking for money, especially from clients. Like he somehow wasn’t worthy to get paid.

Doris looked him up and down, her face wrought with concern, clearly noticing his distress.

“Of course!” She took off her apron and made her way around the counter. “Natasha! You have the register!”

The two of them made their way over to the corner of the shop. It seemed Doris remembered Mason’s favorite studying nook in Grind, as that was where they ended up sitting. The cushions on the leather couch were so big Mason ended up sinking into them.

“How can I help you, young man?” Doris enquired. At twenty-eight years old, Mason didn’t feel young at all.

“Ah, well, it’s a bit awkward.” Mason grimaced. Saying it was awkward was always bound to make it more awkward.

“From what I hear, he’s a very nice young man,” Doris cut in, a wicked smile on her face.

“Who?” Mason looked at her with shock. She couldn’t be talking about Tristan. How did she know he was to blame for this? No one had ever called him nice.

“The young man currently living on your couch,” Doris told him. “It was wonderfully kind of you to offer. We can always do with more Christmas spirit.”

“Oh, no, not that.” He didn’t question that Doris would have already heard about that somehow on the grapevine. The woman lived for gossip. “Although Rhys is great. Last night he cooked this mac and cheese. Oh gosh, Doris. I’ve never been fed like that.” Mason laughed. He would have to get the recipe from Rhys before he left.

“Of course, quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Doris said sagely.

Mason cocked his eyebrow in confusion. He guessed she meant platonic love, even though the two had just met.

“I’m here about your purple Beetle.” Mason had danced around the issue long enough.

“What about it? It had an emissions check a couple months ago, about the time that Eddie…” Doris’s eyes went wide as Mason pulled the folded-up invoice out of his jacket. “I never paid! Oh my goodness!”

Doris leapt up from her own comfy chair and rushed into the back office. Mason expected her to emerge with a checkbook. Instead, she returned with both checkbook and a laptop, along with a pair of reading glasses.

She swooped back into her chair, the leather still depressed, she had returned so quickly. She snatched the invoice from Mason’s hand before frantically typing and clicking on her laptop.

“I’m sorry to bother you with—” Mason was cut off as Doris held up her finger, asking him to pause. A few clicks later, she jabbed enter on the keyboard before slamming her laptop closed. She then scribbled into her checkbook, ripped out the page, and handed it over to Mason.

“And done. Now why in hell did it take you over three months to chase me up on this?” Doris glared at Mason, who for once felt small.

“I was going over the books this morning and kept on coming up short,” Mason explained.

“Oh my dear, you should be doing the books weekly! Daily if you have the time!”

“I know, I just…” Mason didn’t want to admit it, but his business predicament was making him nervous. And not checking on the numbers was a way to delay the reality setting in.

“Look, Mason,” she told him. “Small business owner to small business owner. I almost went under my first year — I kept on giving out free coffees and pastries, hoping it would make people like me. If people like you, that’s all well and good. But they have to like the business even more, and a stable business needs people to pay for their goods. That is literally what our society is based on. Money in exchange for goods and services. I heard you gave the Williamson family a free tune-up the other day, even though they can afford to pay. Your work is worth it. Do you understand, young man?”

Doris pulled a pen from her shirt pocket, signing the invoice. Mason just sat there, thinking about her words. It was true — everyone liked Doris, even though she had a hard outer shell. He would have to work through this issue if he wanted his business to succeed.

They spent the next few minutes gossiping about a young man who had just come into town. A marketing man of some type, he’d visited Grind yesterday saying he’d promote her shop. Mason wondered if he should try and contact the man to help his own struggling business.

When their chatting died down, Mason thanked her again, then jumped back in his tow truck, wondering what had made him look at the books that morning. What had given him the confidence to crunch his numbers?

As Mason pulled into Rocket to grab brunch, he realized it had been Rhys. They’d had such a good time last night he’d given him the energy to face the numbers that morning. He wondered what else he could accomplish with Rhys supporting him like that.

Mason locked his truck before heading into the fifties-style diner, hoping to grab some food to go. Usually he’d be in a rush to get back to the business, but he felt like celebrating this new business milestone. First time he truly realized that his business is worth it.

“Hi there, welcome to Rocket, what can I — oh, it’s you!”

Mason looked down at the waitress with braces in front of him. It took him a second to recognize her in her work clothes and without a rock in her hand.

“Hey there, Tammy,” he nervously greeted her.

He wondered if he was about to get a talking-to by another scary lady today.