A man walks through the door, smoking a cigar. A heavy coat rests on his broad  shoulders, which barely squeeze through the wide door frame. The rhythmic thumping of his mud-caked boots on the tiled floor interrupts the quiet of the night. Moonlight outlines his silhouette, but the baseball cap on his head shades his eyes from my view.

“There’s no smoking in here, sir,” I say.  

The decadent, woody aroma of the cigar fills my nose. The smell reminds me of a  country club, and I half expect the man to reveal a white polo and khaki shorts under his coat.  

He slowly shakes his head. “Just get me a coffee. Something strong.”  

“I can’t do that until you put that cigar out.”  

I try not to associate with smokers. My mother always told me to avoid breathing in  the air around them- “poison,” she said, “a symptom of the city’s illness.”  

“Ain’t nobody else here. You really going to be like that?”  

I glance at the clock - only half an hour until closing time.  

I tell myself five more minutes at work couldn’t hurt. I turn to the coffee grinder, filling a portafilter with finely ground beans. I smooth out the top of the filter and lock it into the espresso machine. Out comes a dark, amber shot of  coffee, which I pour into a mug, topping it off with hot water. The man’s gaze sears into my  back as I work.  

I turn back towards him. He fishes a crumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket and hands it to me. The stranger considers where to sit for a moment before deciding on the table closest to the register. There’s a weight to his movements – a barely perceivable difficulty and strain that reveals itself each time he moves. He takes a long draw from his cigar and then a quick sip of the coffee.  

“Why don’t you take a seat?” he asks.  

“My manager wouldn’t like that,” I reply. “Just like he wouldn’t like you smoking in  here.”  

“Your manager here right now?” 

He isn’t.  

“Please, I insist,” he says, pulling a chair out at the table.

I quickly realize that even if I didn’t want to sit, he could probably make me. Fear kisses my fingertips as they twitch ever so slightly.  

“Christ, didn’t nobody tell you to respect your elders? I don’t bite,” chuckles the man.  

“Maybe when you put out that cigar. Like I said, there’s no smoking in here.”  

The stranger snorts. “You’re a stickler. C’mon, sit down, and I’ll put it out just for  you.” He pats the empty seat.  

The man’s eyes don’t leave me as I step towards the table and sit down. I wrinkle my nose at the overpowering smell of the smoke wafting into my face.  

“Quit it,” I mumble, but it’s too quiet for him to hear. Any hope I had of the man  putting out the cigar evaporates and floats away along with the smoke.  

“What’s your name, boy?” the man asks.  

“Thomas, sir,” I respond, my voice dripping with sarcasm.  

“Stop with that. I’m old, but I ain’t that old. Just call me Cain,” says the man.  

I nod. “You can call me Tommy.”  

Cain smiles. “How long you been working here, Tommy?”  

I take a moment to think. “Just about a year now.”  

“How old are you?”  

“Sixteen,” I respond, though still unsure of the man’s motives.  

“You like it here?” he asks, puffing his cigar.  

“It’s nice. It pays alright for a part-time job.”  

“So, is making coffee what you want to do for the rest of your life?” he asks, scoffing slightly.  

I shake my head. “Probably not for the rest of my life, but it’s a start. Speaking of  which, I should probably get back-”  

“You got any other jobs?”  

I sigh. “Three more.”  

Cain looks at me expectantly.  

“I’m a cashier at the grocery store around the block, a line cook at that old diner down  the street, and I tutor math at the middle school.”  

“You got a favorite?”

I think for a second. “Probably tutoring.” The memory of lively middle schoolers and  messy handwriting replaces the thought of getting back behind the counter, and the corner of  mymouth turns upwards in a slight smile.  “I just really like working with the kids. They’re all pretty bright.” I chuckle.  

Cain nods, thinking for a moment. “So, do you want to teach when you grow up?”  

I shrug. “Maybe. But I’m working mainly because those kids deserve to learn  properly, even if their teachers don’t want to do their jobs right.”  

He lets out a prolonged whistle of surprise. “Sure is a lot of work for a young kid like  you. What do your parents do?”  

I grimace. My fingers shift against each other in my clenched fist. “My dad’s gone,  and my mom’s a waitress.”  

Cain leans back in his chair. “I know what it’s like to grow up without a father. Must  be tough on you.”  

I nod slowly. “It can be. I’m sorry you had to go through that as well.”  

A small, sad smile flutters across his face for a brief moment. “Don’t be. He would’ve just caused more trouble if he were around. The old geezer had it coming.”  

I silently wish I felt the same about my father. Indifference would be comforting.  

“Well, I’m sorry anyway,” I say, averting his leer.  

“It’s fine, really.” The man sips his coffee and smirks. “So, how’d your dad kick it?”  I raise an eyebrow.  The man chuckles. “I’ll go first. Mr. Cain was a bad man – he made his living stealing.  Tried to mug an off-duty cop, and he was dead before he heard the gunshot.”  

“I’m sorry,” I croak awkwardly, swallowing in a desperate attempt to wet my dry throat.  

Cain laughs loudly. “It’s quite alright.” He takes another draw from his cigar. “And you?"

Our eyes meet, and I suddenly feel exposed.  

“Cancer.” My fingers drum on the table’s surface.  

Cain nods slowly and takes a quick drink from his mug. He grins. “Hell of a way to  go. At least you’ve got your mom, right?”  

“Yeah, but she’s always working,” I add.

“Damn, a dead father and a neglectful mother? You seriously drew the short end of  the stick,” Cain sneers, leaning forward.  

“Don’t talk about my mother like that,” I snap.  

“Well, excuse me,” Cain interjects, relaxing his posture. “Guess I just don’t get why  you and your mother are addicted to working dead-end jobs. Is it genetic or something?”  

“Everyday for three years, my mom has been working nonstop to feed me and claw  our way out of debt. Working a couple jobs to help out is the least I can do.”  

Outside, a truck rolls by, filling the silence that hangs thick in the air. Cain’s eyes glisten, and for a moment, I wonder if he might cry.  

“The best people always have it the worst. Getting sick, going into debt, dying. And the worst of the worst, the most terrible people, they just get to walk free out there, robbing, hurting folk, doing whatever it is they want. Sometimes I wonder what the hell kind of god would let those kinds of things happen, you know?” Cain blows smoke towards the ceiling. 

“You believe in God?” I ask, half-jokingly but curious as to the man’s response. A low chuckle rolls from Cain’s throat like distant thunder over the horizon. I half expect to see a flash of lightning. 

“I don’t believe in nothing no more.”  He looks like he’s considering saying more but ultimately decides against it. The cafe is still for a moment. “How far would you go for her?” Cain asks, his voice cutting through the silence. 

I look to the floor. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.” The cigar is no more than a butt now. Cain removes it from his mouth and grinds it  into the tiled floor with the heel of his boot. I begin to stand uneasily. “I should get back to work -”  

Cain puts a hand on my arm and sits me back down. My heart begins to race like a frenzied animal thrashing in the jaws of a predator. 

“I mean, love is a powerful thing. I’m asking you how far you’d go for your loved ones,” he clarifies, draining his mug with one last leisurely sip. Cain leans forward, and his voice drops to a low growl. “Would you kill someone for her?” I flinch. A sickening sort of fear washes over me. 

“I’m not sure -” 

The man clicks his tongue and inhales sharply. “No, no, Tommy, it ain’t an ‘I’m not  sure’ sort of question. Yes or no."

My breath quickens. Cold sweat gathers on my palms.

“You see, Tommy, I’m in a bit of a situation. I’ve got a mother, too. And a wife. We have a son. I’m getting old, and I want to leave something behind for them, which is why I took up the line of work I’m in. But there’s a bit of a problem. There’s this lady who owes money to a friend of mine, and it’s bad for business if we let her get away with not paying us back.” 

I want to run, but my legs refuse to move. 

“Well, what would you do?” he asks expectantly. 

My throat feels dry like sandpaper. “I guess I’d ask for it back.” 

Cain chuckles. “I wish it were that simple, but that’s not an option. You see, my friend wants me to kill this woman’s son. He thinks it’ll seriously scare her into getting the money back. My friend isn’t a very good person, and he knows where my family lives, so - well, you know how it is. He ain’t all there, anyway.” Cain sticks his pointer finger out and twirls it around his ear. 

Cain reaches into the waistband of his work pants and brandishes a pistol; racks the slide back, peers into the chamber, and releases. It clicks into place, and he sets the gun in the middle of the table. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.  

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” says the man. “Either you shoot me, or I am going to kill you.” 

His voice remains even and cold, but his eyes glisten with sadness and fatigue. 

“I could never -” 

“So you’re picking me, a stranger, over your own family?” the man scoffs. “What kind of logic is that?”  

“You have a family, too,” I sputter, desperately grasping for the words to reason with the crazed, armed stranger in front of me. 

The man slams his hand on the table. “Who do you think I am? What kind of people do you think I’m involved with?  Think, kid,” he snarls. “Logically, it’s one life for many more. Make the right choice.”  

“I can’t - I’ve never -”  

“Think about your mother - what will happen to her without her son?”  

For a moment, I can see my mother. The stranger fishes a phone out of his pocket and tosses it onto the table. It clatters onto the wooden surface. Gingerly, I pick it up.

“Call your mother,” the man commands.  

With shaking hands, I flip the phone open and punch in my mother’s phone number, one digit at a time. The dial tone rings through the air.

“When she picks up,” the stranger begins, “Tell her that you’re going to die.”  

The dial tone rings again.  

“Tell her that you tried to be a good person.”  

The silence between each ring of the dial tone grows longer and longer.  

“Or maybe don’t say anything - the sound of the life leaving her son’s body will be enough.”  

I see myself lunge for the gun and aim it forward. I stare into Cain’s eyes, now a tranquil sea of deep brown. And I squeeze the trigger.