Stas

The coffee here was always crap. It smelled of burnt rubber and the cinnamon you sprinkled on it to cover up the bitterness. You were in your second year of work, accustomed to the roar of the coffee machine and the "shift-home-sleep" cycle. Life was devoid of events.

Until Stas showed up.

They released him on Monday. Thin, with wet cuffs, he looked at you like a guru. "I'll remember everything," he squeaked, confusing the buttons. You taught him how to froth milk, but the foam was soapy. "The main thing is to smile," you said.

On Thursday you went out for a smoke break. Three minutes.

They returned and froze. Stas stood behind the counter, his head bowed, and a drunk man in a rumpled jacket loomed before him. He was practically lying on the counter, clutching a glass with one hand and grabbing Stas's apron with the other.

"What's wrong, kid?" the voice was oily. "Give me some whiskey. Or you. Let's go out for a smoke."

Stas was shaking. His hand hovered over the button. Frightened faces were reflected in the display case behind the drunk. No one intervened.

The man pulled Stas towards himself, and he almost fell over.

Something clicked in your chest. Not anger—cold fury. You took a step. The lid crunched under your foot.

"Hey!" a strange voice. "Take your hands away."

The man turned around, reeking of fumes. He grinned:

• Oh, boss. And we're getting to know the kid here.

You looked at Stas, tears in his eyes. Then at the empty cast-iron pot. Heavy.