The next morning, Harold Coleman did something he hadn’t done in 3 years. He got dressed like a nobody. Worn jacket from the back of his closet, old baseball cap, no watch. He left the Omega on the bathroom counter.

No car service. He took the bus. Rode it 14 stops to Colfax Avenue and walked two blocks to the Denver flagship of Iron Brew Coffee, the store he’d built with money he borrowed from his mother’s retirement fund, the store where he’d poured the first cup himself and handed it to a stranger for free.

He pushed the door open. The bell above it chimed. Nobody looked up. Tiffany Grant was behind the register, phone in one hand, the other resting flat on the counter like she was guarding it.

Jenna Moore stood at the espresso machine, scrolling through something on her screen, a towel draped over her shoulder she clearly hadn’t used.

Harold stepped to the counter, stood there. 5 seconds, 10, 15. A young white couple walked in behind him. Tiffany’s head snapped up instantly, bright smile.

“Hey guys, welcome to Iron Brew. What can I get started for you?” She took their order around Harold, like he was a pillar, like he was furniture.

He waited. The couple got their drinks. They sat down. Tiffany went back to her phone.

Harold cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’d like to order.”

Tiffany looked up. Her eyes traveled from his cap to his jacket to his shoes, slow, deliberate, the way someone scans something they’ve already decided to throw away.

“What you want?” Not a question, a verdict.

“A cortado, please, and a slice of banana bread.”

Tiffany tilted her head. A cortado? She turned to Jenna. He wants a cortado.

Jenna snorted without looking up. Tiffany turned back to him, speaking slowly, the way adults speak to children who aren’t theirs.

“Sir, do you know what a cortado is? Or do you just want a regular black coffee? Keep it simple.”

Harold felt the heat climb his neck. He kept his voice level. “I know what a cortado is. I’d like one, please.”

Tiffany shrugged, punched it in, didn’t ask his name, just scribbled BC on the cup. He didn’t ask what it stood for. He already knew.

He paid cash. Tiffany took the bills with two fingers like she was pulling a receipt from a wet floor, dropped his change on the counter instead of his hand. Three coins rolled. He picked them up one by one.

He took his cup and the banana bread to a corner table, sat down. The cortado was lukewarm. The banana bread was good. Actually, it was excellent. The best thing on the menu, and he hadn’t even known it existed.