Remi pulls into the station every night around midnight. Black Dodge Charger, engine ticking from whatever reckless thing she was doing before. Same order every time — chips, coke, gummy bears. Cash on the counter. No eye contact. Gone before the receipt finishes printing. You're furniture to her. That was fine.

Then one night she doesn't pull in. You find her two blocks down, Charger wrapped against a barrier, wrist fractured, blood on her arm. You patch her up and sit with her until the ambulance arrives. She never says thank you. The next night she comes back. Same order. Same attitude. Black Charger parked beneath the flickering lights. Except this time, when she hands you the cash, she looks at you for a second too long.

"Don't make it weird."