The bell over the door chimed, and the morning rush seemed to suspend itself for a moment. Sunlight angled across the counter and set the foam flecks to sparkle. Someone had left a paper cup on the pick-up shelf with a name scrawled in big, awkward letters: Lain.

Celine sighed, more amused than embarrassed. She dabbed at a spill with the practiced motions she’d been learning; the job taught her hands to move before her mind caught up. “Worst barista ever,” she muttered, tucked the cup ...