CHAPTER 3 — Mr. Mustard Knows

Morning arrived with the same three alarms and the same argument. 

The alarms went off, and Irene shuffled into the kitchen with her hair attempting several different directions at once and started the coffee maker.

As usual, the apartment was quiet except for the familiar hum of Mr. Mustard's filter.

She poured coffee into her oldest mug, leaned against the counter, and looked at the envelope still tucked beneath her phone.

"I'm not calling."

Mr. Mustard floated near the glass.

"I mean it."

He blinked. It was an impressively slow blink. The kind that carried absolutely no judgment while somehow still feeling judgmental.

"I know what you're thinking."

Mr. Mustard continued existing.

"And we’ve already talked about this—that it's obviously a scam."

Blink.

"And I already told you that they're going to sell my kidneys."

Blink.

"So…nope! No thank you."

Blink.

"Oh boy, I don't know why I keep asking your opinion."

Mr. Mustard paddled one lazy circle through the water.

Irene sighed.

"You always look like you know something."

He didn't. He was a turtle.

Irene slid the envelope farther underneath her phone.

"There."

The morning shift at the coffee shop was blessedly ordinary. No broken espresso machine. No customer insisting oat milk tasted weird. And no one was trying to explain cryptocurrency to her while ordering a latte.

She just made coffee and took orders. The steady rhythm she'd come to appreciate because routine was predictable, and predictable rarely ruined her week.

Then Blythe caught her staring into space while steaming milk. "You look thoughtful."

"I'm trying not to."

"How's that going?"

"I accidentally started."

"Terrible habit." Blythe nodded. "I quit thinking years ago."

"I believe that."

She smiled. "I've never been happier."

By noon they were laughing over a customer who'd spent five full minutes describing "coffee, but not coffee."

Neither of them had figured out what he'd wanted. He hadn't either.

Then Irene was off to her next work. The bus ride across town was crowded enough that she had to stand. She balanced one hand on the overhead rail while the bus lurched through traffic.

Then her phone rang.

Mom.

She answered before it could go to voicemail. "Hi Mom."

"Irene." Amanda's voice wasn't slurred or angry. "I just talked to billing."

Irene closed her eyes. "Okay."

"They’ve raised their rates."

"...How much, Mom?"

"The new cycle starts in three weeks."

"Mom, how much?"

"Two hundred forty dollars."

A teenager beside Irene was watching a video loud enough for half the bus to hear. She almost envied him. His biggest problem seemed to involve losing a video game.

"I don't have another two hundred forty."

Amanda ignored that. "They explained inflation."

"I'm sure they did."

"So that's what it'll be."

The bus stopped. More people climbed aboard. Someone bumped Irene's shoulder.

"I'll figure something out."

"I know, sweetheart," Amanda said it so casually it almost sounded comforting. Except it wasn't. It was an expectation. The kind that had quietly settled over Irene's life years ago.

You'll figure it out.

Because you always do.

Because someone has to.

"I'm on my way to work."

"You're always on your way to work," Amanda sighed softly. It wasn't admiration. It wasn't guilt either. Just an observation. Like saying it looked like rain.

"I'll call tomorrow, Mom."

"I might not be here tomorrow."

Irene looked out the bus window.

Amanda had never liked direct threats. She preferred suggestions. Half-finished sentences. Doors left slightly open.

"You'll be there, Mom."

"We'll see."

"I promise I'll call tomorrow."

Amanda didn't answer. The line disconnected.

Irene lowered the phone slowly. And for several seconds she simply stood there while the bus rattled through the city.

Then, because she apparently enjoyed emotional self-harm, she started doing math. Again. Her rent, utilities, Bella, and Amanda. And now another two hundred forty.

She shifted numbers around in her head. She could remove groceries, reduce sleep, and imagine working another shift somewhere.

The equation still didn't close. Not even almost.

When she arrived at the convenience store, Irene tied on her nametag, logged into the register, and started scanning.

Chips.

Soda.

Lottery tickets.

Energy drinks.

More lottery tickets.

Then a man bought six cans of tuna and nothing else. She didn't ask.

Three hours slipped by one barcode at a time.

Somewhere between a carton of milk and a family-sized bag of cheese puffs, the letter wandered back into her thoughts.

Three months' rent.

Bella's tuition.

Amanda's rehab.

She pictured Bella asking, When?

Then Amanda says, You'll figure it out.

The anonymous envelope sat somewhere in the back of her mind.

"Miss?"

Nothing.

"Miss Cashier?"

Still nothing.

"...Sleeping Beauty?"

Irene blinked.

A guy stood on the other side of the counter grinning at her. He was maybe twenty-five. His dark hair tucked beneath a backward baseball cap. And he had the sort of smile that suggested he'd been told to stop causing trouble several thousand times.

"You back with us?" he asked Irene.

"...Sorry."

"I was about to check for a pulse."

"Sorry,” Irene said again. “I'm multitasking."

"Looked more like you were buffering."

She looked down at his items. A pair of plaid men's slippers, a bag of gummy bears, and a box of condoms.

She reached for the scanner.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The guy watched her with entirely too much amusement.

"So."

She looked up.

"So?"

"I feel like you're judging me," he laughed.

She bagged the slippers first. Then the gummies. Then the condoms.

He looked into the bag. "You packed those like they're introducing themselves."

"They're all strangers." She handed over the receipt.

He didn't take it immediately. "You know..."

She waited.

"I feel like you think the slippers ruined the mystery."

"What mystery?"

"The condoms."

She stared at him. He leaned in a little.

"The slippers are because my apartment's cold."

"I didn't ask."

"You looked curious," he smiled. “The gummies are for my niece."

"I still didn't ask."

"And the condoms..."

"I especially didn't ask."

"...are none of your business."

Irene nodded. “Got it.”

He laughed so hard he almost dropped the bag.

"You've been waiting to say that."

"For almost a full minute." He saluted her with the receipt. "Have a better day than whatever you were thinking about."

Then he disappeared out the automatic doors. Irene watched him leave.

The customer behind him stepped forward. "Cigarettes."

Life moved on.

Midnight finally arrived, and she clocked out and walked home beneath orange streetlights.

When she arrived, she unlocked her apartment. Fed Mr. Mustard.

"I hope you had a better day than I did."

Mr. Mustard accepted his pellets with professional enthusiasm.

Lucky turtle. No bills. No jobs.

Irene sat at the counter. 

The apartment felt unusually still. The envelope remained where she’d left it. She grabbed it and read the number again. Then set the paper down and took out her phone.

He paused and held it. Put it back down. Picked it up again.

"This is a terrible idea."

Mr. Mustard blinked.

She took a slow breath.

Then, before she could talk herself out of it for a second time...

...she dialed the number.