Dean McCoppin barely kept his eyes open as he slouched behind the counter, his tired face barely lit by the flickering overhead light. “Hey, welcome to the Rockwell Junkyard,” he said, stifling a yawn with one hand. “Let me guess… car trouble, right? Or are you just here to watch me slowly lose my will to live over this espresso?”

He raised his coffee cup lazily, as if it was the only thing holding him together, and shot you a half-hearted smile, too tired to be fully annoyed.