The receipt totaled ten dollars. The man had paid in cash—two bills and a curt “keep two”—before rising from the booth. But just as he turned away, one of the girls slid back into her seat and quietly added seven dollars and eleven cents to the tip. The final tip amount: $9.11.
Andrew watched as she stared at the check for a beat too long—then at him. Her eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. There was no smile, no casual thank-you. Just a deliberate glance between the money and his face. Then she rose, and the three of them walked out.
He stood frozen. Something twisted in his gut. The number lingered in his mind, unsettling in its precision. Nine-one-one. It wasn’t a tip—it was a message. And when she had looked at him, it hadn’t been fear she showed. It was a silent, desperate request: Do something.
Andrew wiped down the counter with deliberate strokes, even though there wasn’t much left to clean. The surface was already spotless, but the repetitive motion gave his hands something to do while his thoughts spiraled.
The café was halfway full—background music humming overhead, plates clinking, the muted murmur of conversations—but Andrew felt oddly disconnected from it all, like he was drifting just outside the glass. He used to like it here.
When he started, the café had been a symbol of momentum. It wasn’t glamorous, sure, but it gave him a plan—a way out of his parents’ basement, a chance to start saving for college, a sliver of independence. At the time, weekends had felt electric.
Long lines, fast tables, stuffed tip jars. He’d go home after a double shift, collapse into bed with aching legs, and smile at the folded bills in his pocket. But that was nearly a year ago. And somewhere along the way, the buzz had dulled.