The bell over the door gave a weak little jingle when Norah walked in.The place smelled like coffee burned hours ago. Fryer grease too. It clung to you. The floor tugged at her shoes with each step toward the counter.
A man waited there. Shirt buttons fighting to hold his belly in, arms folded like he’d been standing that way all morning. His hair was thinning at the top, dark with gray at the sides, and his face had the permanent scowl of someone who didn’t laugh much. He looked her over—slowly, head to toe—until Norah’s stomach clenched.
“You Norah?” His voice was rough, no welcome in it.
“Yes,” she said quickly, fingers tight around the strap of her bag.
“I’m the manager. Ben.” No handshake, no smile. Just a stare, weighing her like she was already on trial. He gave a short pause, t
