Three weeks had passed since the phone call and Ava kept telling herself she could bury it.
The cash had done its job. Grandma’s surgery had gone smoothly, the tumors shrinking enough that the doctors were using words like “promising” and “maintenance phase” instead of the usual “palliative” that made Ava want to scream.
She had gone back to her routines: morning shifts at the coffee shop near NYU, evening bar shifts at The Rusty Anchor in the East Village, then late night online classes for the degree she had basically ghosted. She told herself the twenty-five grand had been a one-time gig. A closed chapter.
Ava moved behind the bar on autopilot mode: pour, shake, fake a smile, repeat. This is her fourth part-time job working as a waitress at a bar.
She was wiping down the bar when
