Late afternoon on a Sunday in October and the temperature still clocks in near eighty degrees. Fall in Los Angeles should probably just be christened Summer Part II.

But at least I’m off to make some money for it. To be bringing in a paycheck at sixteen is more than most people at Piedmont High can say — and it’s going toward something.

Caliban Street Station is a short three blocks up from where we live. I pass a locksmith who will replace any key with not a single question breathed, an empty lot where cars have been stopped to their final rest, and a discarded sofa that still somehow has evaded Los Angeles City ever picking it up.

This side of Amarillo Heights isn’t “fixed” yet. But maybe the rent hike our landlord kicked us in the gut with last month is meant to change that. Of course, that also probably means shaking out people like me and my family as if we’re some interchangeable parts.

But is my job actually stopping that or just delaying the inevitable?

I get to the top of the train station’s platform and finish my water bottle, taking a seat on a bench. The bench is old, but the metal armrest added in the middle of it is new and coated in fresh, shiny paint. It’s a silent and menacing “Don’t sleep on me.”

If my family and I got nowhere to go, where will we eventually sleep?

I turn away, try to focus on the tracks, maybe spot my train — instead I stare right into a creepy, freaky pair of yellow eyes. I don’t mean like you-got-liver-problems yellow, more like the color of lion’s eyes in my grandma’s cobija: golden, mesmerizing, and lethal.

The owner smiles at me. “Hi.”

I jump. This man with yellow eyes is just suddenly standing in front of me, leaning in and staring. Chills race up my back. His jawline is long and sharp. His nose curves out into a fine hook like my Uncle Noé’s. There’s a hint of a mustache underneath, like a kindergartener took a pencil and quickly scribbled it there. That plus his long, black hair make him young-ish, a late twenty-something, but there’s this chilly vibe rolling off him. Like, it’s Summer Part II and suddenly, it feels like it’s actually a cold autumn day.

He clears his throat to repeat himself and I realize he must’ve spoken earlier.

“Are you done with that?” He points to the empty water bottle now crunched between my hands. Wordlessly, I hold it out. “Gracias.”

He plucks the bottle out of my hands and tosses it into a canvas bag filled with more empty water bottles and soda cans. That’s when I notice he’s dressed like a total weirdo. His clothes are full-on patchwork. His shoes are both sandals, but one’s a flip-flop and the other’s a heavier one with straps and belts. His cut-off jeans are held up by suspenders over an old boyband shirt. Oddly enough, he doesn’t smell the way he looks. I catch a whiff of sagebrush, prickly and fresh, like the hills around Amarillo Heights.

“Waiting for the train?” he asks.

Dude’s still a weirdo, so I go, “Nothing else.”

Please don’t sit next to me, please don’t sit next to me.

He plunks down right beside me on the bench. Great. The weird chilly feeling worsens, going from opening the fridge to standing in the freezer.

“Got any glue on you?”

Is he looking for something to huff? Where the hell’s the train?

“I have some tape.” I hold up the tiny, plastic dispenser I swiped from school because we ran out at home. Yeah, I’ll say three Hail Marys and one Act of Contrition later. Right now, this dinky piece of stationery is helping me keep peace with a creeper.

He takes the tape, then rummages into the canvas bag. He pulls out a marionette. Dangling on strings wrapped around two slender wood blocks, the marionette spins and dances at his feet. It’s the kind of puppet you can get at Olvera Street in downtown, ceramic head with traditional Mexican clothes. This one’s a farmer, all in white with feet made of wood and a tiny sombrero.

But the puppet’s right arm hangs limply at its side. The Patchwork Man picks up the loose string. It’s too short to tie up, so he starts to tape it back to the control bars above it.

“So, you going to work?” the Patchwork Man says as he repairs the marionette.

“Yeah, it’s still my first week.” I realize I sound a little too proud, so I quickly add, “Why you wanna know anyway? You gonna be the next CSI of Amarillo Heights?”

He laughs. “Mi’ja, I can see the apron and cap you’re holding. What’s it say on there?”

“Persnickety. It’s a coffee shop.”

The man chuckles. “Sounds like one of the new businesses on Prospero Boulevard.”

“Yeah, it is.” And it replaced one of my mom’s favorite bakeries. I wonder what the owner, Mr. Mando, is doing now.

“And you got hired there?” the Patchwork Man continues. “Well, good for you. You plan to work there for a while?”

I shrug. “My family needs the money, you know? It won’t be my only job ever. Once I get to college and finish my degree, I’ll have a better job. A real one, like an engineer.”

He tests out the marionette. It twirls. He smirks. “And then what? You’ll move out of the neighborhood, I’m guessing? Someplace nicer?”

“No!” The only reason I was taking this job was so my family could hang on to what we had. “Amarillo Heights is home. We ain’t going nowhere.”

For a moment, the Patchwork Man blinks wide and curious at me, like I’ve done something interesting. Then a big, curving smile stretches across his face.

“What?” I go.

The Patchwork Man laughs — a high, broken sound. “You’re a survivor,” he finally says. He smirks, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I respect that.”

He hands me back the tape. I take it.

“Thanks, but you can keep the respect,” I go.

I must not have too much of it myself if I’m working at a place like Persnickety to survive.

The train finally screeches up to my stop. I get on. Though I’m not putting on either the damn cap and apron ’til I’m actually inside the pinche coffee shop.

* * *

When I step out to the platform, the raised tiny tiles of a mosaic press through the thin soles of my sneakers. Like braille, I can tell without looking that the mosaic reads “Prospero Boulevard.”

I always wondered with my little coffee shop job here, does that plug me into the system that rolled out the welcome mat for outsiders, like our landlord, to move into our neighborhood, buy up property, and jack-up the rent all around town? I’m not even sure if my mom would care. I think she’s so glad that I have a job, forget that I’m supporting the whole food chain that’s going to eat us up alive.

A bike lane that wasn’t there before snakes alongside me as I make my way down Prospero, scanning the business storefronts. People line up in droves outside of what used to be a party supply store for brunch. The faded, patchy painting of Big Bird and Hello Kitty are still visible on the side. The old bowling alley is open again, but it’s now sixty dollars for a lane. Is this what people mean when they say Amarillo Heights is “fixed”?

I pass a “help wanted” sign in a yoga studio’s window. I should keep walking. I need to get to work. My body — with my dark skin and protective fat over my hips, nothing like the thin, pale bodies inside — reflects back at me in the glass window. The muscles in my legs bunch. I want to sprint all five blocks back to the train station, ride home to where I don’t feel like such an outsider in my own neighborhood.

I get into Persnickety at five o’clock sharp. It’s so weird this used to be Mando’s Bakery, the place behind every birthday cake and celebration for my family and most others in Amarillo Heights. Straight-up gone and ghosted now. But the crowd doesn’t let me linger on this for too long. The coffee shop is already filling up. It’s Art Walk Night. People bustle in, some already hugging their first deals of the night — prints, posters, comic books, or a small jangling bag of new handcrafted jewelry. Not that I have time to look. Soon we’re packed to standing room only.

“Glad you made it, Maria!” Brian calls to me. Tall and skinny with skin pale as cheesecake, my boss’ hands are full with a tray of fresh pastries.

“Marcela!” I call back. It’s only the first week. Brian’s probably still getting used to me.

Then I hear the twang of a guitarist tuning his amp. From the sound of it we’re probably the coffee shop closest to the art walk performance stage. The next couple hours are a whirlwind. No sooner do we bust out orders, a new wave of customers crashes into the coffee shop, storming the counter. Some folks come back and bring their friends. I don’t get to practice pretty doodles in the latte foam tonight. Hell, I barely have time to breathe.

No clue how Jenny and Nate, the other two staff members, are so calm about it.

“I saw that there’s a pub crawl going on tonight,” Nate says as he blends a frappe.

I glance over. “What’s that?”

“A booze fest,” Jenny drones.

Nate waves a hand at her. “Don’t make it sound so crass. It’s a chance to explore. I got a weakness for IPAs. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember the last time I had an exceptional hefeweizen.”

“Nate,” I go, “you talk about beer almost the way Brian talks about coffee.” Beer in my family usually comes in a can, sometimes a bottle, and never has half the German words Nate rattles off.

Curling a few red hairs from his beard around a finger, Nate gazes longingly out the door. “Now that I think about it, Prospero is probably one of the best places to do a pub crawl. There’s so many awesome bars that have opened up in the past year alone, like Quarter Horse on Avenue Fifty-seven.”

Jenny tips her head in a ghost nod. “Or what about the one in the new bowling alley?”

“Mr. B’s? Yeah, I been there.”

Nate rambles on listing bars and I tune out. I can name most of the businesses those places used to be before someone had decided to make it rain liquor licenses in Amarillo Heights.

It’s about nine when most of our rush finally trickles down, Nate stretches and calls to the back. “Brian! I’m out, man. Need myself a drink after today.”

“Buddy, you earned it.” Brian claps Nate on the back and waves him out to freedom.

I resist the urge to wimp out and say I got school in the morning. I have less than an hour to go. That’s money on the table. Má toughs it out every day to keep a leaky roof over me and my sister. I haven’t been on my feet for ten hours running between nitpicky customers yelling at me for how someone else cooked their eggs or woken up at four a.m. to be surrounded by deafening machinery and dust that turns my boogers and everything inside me black. I can manage a little longer in a comfy coffee shop.

I got it good, and I’m gonna get paid. People always get an energy boost when you add money into the mix. Look at Brian.

Adjusting his turquoise cap, Brian preens. “Guys, we’re doing awesome tonight! We might be able to turn a real profit this month!”

Jenny yawns. “Yeah, maybe if every night were like this.” She checks her phone. “Hey, I’m past due for a break.”

Brian barely glances at the remaining customers in the shop. “Say no more! See you in fifteen.” He turns to salute me. “Marcela and I got this, right?”

I blink, suppressing the urge to say something dumb like, “Aye, aye, capt’n.” Brian’s smile says he trusts me, sees me as one of the team. I know we are standing in the middle of what used to be Mando’s Bakery, but for the first time since I set foot in Persnickety I feel like I belong here.

The second I think it, there’s this recoil in my gut. Do I switch up sides that easy?

Once Jenny’s out, Brian puts me in charge of “interfacing with clientele.” While I bustle from the register to the barista, Brian hovers nearby, scratching away at spreadsheets on a clipboard, probably taking inventory.

“How do you feel about manning the front on your own?” he asks two customers later.

I slap my hands on the cool countertop, trying to take off some of the nervous sweat. “Pretty good.”

Brian holds up his clipboard. “All right! I’ll be in the back office running some numbers. Holler if you need anything.”

“No problem. I got this!” I go.

The rush has eased up and I don’t need to protect my fingers from getting bitten off by rabid customers anymore. Persnickety’s indoor tables have only one couple making cow eyes at each other and mostly a bunch of abandoned cups and plates to clean up.

The front door swings open as six men bluster in. A real crowd. From the way they shove and joke with each other, they look like drinking buddies. No trimmed beards or blocky glasses, though. Collared shirts with loosened buttons and rolled up sleeves, dress slacks, a loose jacket over one shoulder — maybe an after-work group. They must be out for the pub crawl.

“Remind me why we’re at a goddamn coffee shop and not Quarter Horse instead?” one of them whines.

“Because Justin wants his girly-ass latte,” an older man shouts from the back.

Half the men laugh loud, deep, and stupid. A tall guy, looks like the youngest in the group, tries to shush them. Tall Guy slouches over toward the front. “My latte’s what’ll keep me awake to drive some of you shitheads home.”

I get behind the register, guarding it like a goalie. My mission is clear: process their orders, prep them together, and get them the hell out of here. Clearly, this group wants to get on with their drinking. This could be quick.

“Hi, there,” I call. “Can I help you?” I aim for Tall Guy since he stands closest. He hasn’t turned around either, though, so it goes to their mini mob in general — which means my words are sucked into the vortex of their chatter. They get louder. The couple that’s been seated in one corner stand up and tiptoe their way out. Damn.

I study the group as if maybe if I stare hard enough they’ll notice me, remember why they’re in a coffee shop and leave. That’s when a bright red baseball cap catches my eye, the kind with the stupidest catch phrase imaginable stitched across. Maybe his voice only goes high-def because I’m paying attention, Asshat suddenly sounds louder than the rest of the group.

“Man, I almost shit my pants when you said we were going out to Amarillo Heights tonight,” he says, butchering my neighborhood’s name to sound like an English word. “But looks like it’s come a ways. The last time I was here was a few decades ago and the area was overrun with Mexicans.”

A sharp, sudden pain — like static, or anger — jolts from my wrist through my fingertips. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that an idiot with a red cap spurts shit like that. But I never heard anyone say it so casually, like breathing.

“Easy, Jeff.” The man who speaks to Asshat has hair thinning up front and glasses that droop down his nose. His face flushes five types of red as he splutters hushes through nervous laughter. “You know you can’t say stuff like that in granola-crunchy places like this.”

Asshat Jeff mocks a scan of Persnickety. “What? Did I miss the safe space sign?”

Breathe, Marcela . . . screw it.

“Are you going to order anything?” I practically shout it.

Asshat snarls my way. “Hey, relax! We’ll come over when we’re ready.”

They ignore me and yammer on, the volume increasing as they reminisce about a neighborhood they only know in late-night glimpses and news stories.

“Heard they had a major drug bust and that’s what got them to clean up some.”

“I still think they could step up the security around here a bit.”

Jeff laughs a short, loud bark. “Can you imagine? Get enough cops around here and half the population would disappear back across the border.”

My skin prickles. Asshat is some piece of work.

“Jeff,” Droopy Glasses warns. “Ease up. I hear people actually live here now.”

Wait, live here now? As in, me and my family didn’t before?

The more I listen, the more I realize everyone else in the group is basically saying the same stuff as Asshat. The words just happen to be arranged differently. Hipsters talk like that, so do well-meaning people who don’t know crap, and — at the end of it — they all sound like Jeff.

When I look up, Tall Guy finally takes the last couple steps up to the counter. “Okay, so that’s a latte, two coffees, four croissants —”

“Hey, Shawn says he wants a coffee, too!” someone else chimes in.

“Okay, um, wait, that’s four coffees . . .” Tall Guy drones.

“Three,” I correct.

As if he doesn’t believe me, Tall Guy twists over his shoulder to check with the group. “Shawn, Jeff, and who else wanted coffee?”

“Aw shit, here, I’ll do it.” Pulling up his belt buckle up to his saggy gut like he’s about to do some man’s work, Asshat struts his way up to the register.

“Step aside,” he growls at Tall Guy, who jumps back two feet. Asshat leers at me. He whips out this big, yellow-toothed smile, not like he had joked that me and people who look like me in Amarillo Heights can be shipped off by La Migra tomorrow for no reason other than the bullshit in whatever sits under that red hat.

“Hey, sweetheart, we’ll take three coffees,” he says. “Make mine normal, though, none of that frothy shit.”

I hear his order, crammed in with a tactless attempt to be “polite” or whatever you call it when a man thinks giving you an unsolicited syrupy nickname is flattering — but my hands don’t move over the register. I don’t feel like moving. Not for him. I notice the sign on the right over one of the tables. I read the first line aloud.

“We reserve the right to refuse service.”

Asshat blinks at me, surprised I say anything else other than, “Coming right up!” Looking at the group, he’s probably used to hearing the word yes a lot. “What’s that, hon?”

I know that tone. It’s the same way Má says, “What did you say?” Not that she didn’t hear you. You were simply being given a chance to correct yourself. This guy isn’t good enough to lick my mother’s kitchen floor.

“We reserve the right to refuse service,” I repeat, stronger, firmer. Real talk: For a split second, I ten thousand percent do wonder if I might get my own ass fired over this. Asshat hasn’t been an asshat to me directly. But Brian strikes me as the type of white person who has principles. Maybe not the type who would have walked behind MLK at Selma, but who would at least want to broadcast his support. More like the ones who tacked on safety pins to say they didn’t vote an idiot into office or who would forego a straw to save plastic. If I really have to hedge my bets, Brian will probably back me before he serves a jerk like this.

“I think you should find another coffee shop,” I say. 

“Excuse me?” His voice pitches. “Do you want to say that again?”

Oh, he’s going hard on Má’s strategy.

“C’mon, Jeff, we’ll look for a different place.” Tall Guy tugs on the crook of his elbow. “You said you didn’t even what to go here. Too trendy, remember?”

Jeff grunts, but his hands stay planted on our shiny countertop. He hangs on like it’s a life preserve. I notice his watch — the fancy kind with three tiny faces on the main one — hangs heavy and expensive around his wrist. It isn’t about the coffee anymore. It’s about him making me do what he wants. Screw that.

“You’re saying you won’t serve me?” His voice booms, lips pull back, folded flesh around his neck stretches. “I want to speak to your supervisor. Get me your supervisor! Now!”

“I would like you to leave,” I say. Props to me, I don’t shout back. Don’t have to really. Even the cronies Asshat walked in with have shut up.

But Asshat’s already on a roll. He pulls out his wallet, slaps it on the counter and fishes out a twenty. “Look, I’m giving you money!” He waves it in my face. I step back, not just to keep the bill from brushing me but to resist from grabbing that twenty and smacking him with it.

“You’re the one who obviously needs this job!” he shouts. “At least do the smart thing and take it!”

Brian bursts out from the back door. “Marcela, what’s going . . .” He looks from me to Asshat. His eyes widen when he sees that cap. He spares one more glance at me, and I nod. He’s got the whole story. But Brian is Brian. Smoothly, he asks, “Is something wrong, sir?”

“Yeah, something’s wrong!” A stubby finger’s jabbed in my direction. “She’s refusing me service. You got some kind of prejudice thing going on here?”

I swear I almost laugh. In my Physiology Honors class last year, we covered how that’s a common reaction to stress. Whenever your brain is beat down with so much tension you either got to laugh or cry. But this isn’t done yet.

Brian will probably shuffle them out. Tell them to go to hell, in a Brian way, of course, so that hell sounds like a vacation. The door will slap Asshat on the way out and me and my boss will have a laugh over it. Brian is in my corner.

I step aside from the register, waiting for him to let them have it.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Brian punches a couple of keys on the register to reset it. “What can I get you?”

What. The. Fuck?

I gape at my boss. Jeff laughs, rough, ragged, and winning. It feels like he’s laughing at me, like I’m the idiot, the dumbass who is so wholly, undisputedly in the wrong. My heart thuds in my chest, trying to jump up my throat. Asshat will not see me cry. He cheerfully rattles off the order, then turns to his buddies for theirs. Suddenly, everyone in the group wants a coffee or some kind of drink and pastry. It’s as if they’ve won a battle and it’s important to take the spoils.

Asshat grins at Brian with the same fake-news smile he gave me. “Sorry about all the commotion here. I know I can get a little heated and lose my cool.”

Now, most people might take this moment to go, “Yeah, you’re a piece of human garbage. Get out of here. We have a sanitation code to keep trash to a minimum.”

Brian instead mumbles three words I will hate for the rest of my life. “No, it’s fine.”

Fine? FINE? My fists are clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms. Keeping the anger in, everything feels ready to shatter and crumble — my bones, my brain, my soul. Brian caves to coddling Asshat the way the other guys in the group do. As if setting him off is somehow worse than telling him to piss off. Damn, Brian’s no better than they are.

I want to say, “Why are you trying to make him feel better? I’m the one he yelled at!”

When the twenty is offered again — graciously slid across the counter this time — Brian shakes his head. “There’s no charge.”

Asshat waves his hand in the air and pushes the cash forward. “Nah, I can tell you’re a decent guy.” He angles his head my way. “Hope you educate your workers in the basics of business and needing to make ends meet.”

“Thanks for your patience,” is all Brian says. “We’ll have your order out in a couple minutes.” Grabbing a pair of tongs, he stuffs a brown bag full of Danishes and muffins. He passes the bag over to Asshat. “These are on the house, too.”

Posing like a big damn hero, Asshat returns to his crowd of hooting Neanderthals. They shove a couple tables together and settle in. Somewhere in there is that ragged laugh. “Did you see how I handled that little punk?”

Every nerve-ending in my body feels fried. Exhaustion, like after you’ve puked your guts out from a bad stomach bug, sweeps over me.

“Brian,” I say as he gets to setting out several disposable coffee cups. “I’m going to take my break.”

“Can you help me fill this order first? Some of these guys got two drinks.”

That’s it. My customer service voice is done for the night. My patience is done.

I’m done.

“Brian, I don’t want to fill the order of a single one of those racist assholes.” The group is already lost in their own conversation again. We’re behind the counter. Brian still snaps at me to keep it down.

He adds, “I’m not asking you to judge who walks in here, Marcela. I’m telling you to treat them like every other customer.”

“You’re saying you didn’t notice that red baseball cap?” I only barely keep my voice down from going shrill. “I’m not judging, Brian. He’s broadcasting!”

Arms stick-straight at his sides, Brian inhales slowly. His answer, when it comes, is short and terse. “Marcela, we’re a coffee shop. We’re not here for politics.”

The skin under my eyes pinches. “The hell does that mean?”

“That means I’m asking you to be a professional, to do your job.”

He hurls the last word like a gut punch. Maybe it’s dumb, but I didn’t pin Brian as the type of guy who could get angry — or get ugly.

I inhale slowly. My job. The thing Brian is paying me for. I glance at the crowd, guys who would never have set foot in Mando’s Bakery. I think of my family and our home. And how I’m not telling them about the night I served white men who will never see any of us as people.

When I crush the lid over the last coffee cup, I move toward the back door before Brian can say anything else. “I’m taking my break.”

“Thank you for your help, Marcela.” He speaks in soft, even tones, then announces the orders are ready.

I don’t stick around to see the group swarm up to collect their drinks. I don’t say hey to Jenny as she comes back in or pause when she asks if something’s wrong. There are no words left in me that aren’t swallowed up with disappointment and disgust. I need out.

I should quit.

Out back, with the dumpsters and crickets, I take a deep breath. But it’s not enough. My feet start moving me out of the parking lot. When I’m on the sidewalk, no more thinking. I run.

I hang a right on Prospero and book it. I don’t stop when I bump into a craft jewelry table or barrel past a clamor of burnt-out band dudes tuning their amps. I run faster.

Peeling off Prospero, I wind my way down a dark street, racing past a locksmith and an overgrown, empty lot. Ahead, I see where the large flood lights loom over Prospero Station. Not even bothering with my metro card, I fly up the walkway and put my all into catching the train that races up to meet me at the platform. I make it on board right as the doors snap shut behind me.

Inside the train is too calm. How can’t anyone else around me hear my hammering heartbeat? An old man with a small, metal pushcart dozes in his seat. In another row, a mom and her two small kids paw through their grocery bags, maybe searching for a snack. I wrap my fingers around the cold, metal pole in the center, sucking in and exhaling as much air as quickly as I can. My whole body hums on high alert.

I did it. I left my job. One text and I could tell Brian I quit.

So, why don’t I feel better? My stomach lurches and sloshes with the stop and go of the train. Thankfully, the Caliban Station stop comes up fast. I can get out and go home — ideally without making a bigger fool of myself. As soon as we come up to my stop, I beeline for the old bench where the Patchwork Man sat this afternoon, and get to tearing off my Persnickety uniform — starting with the stupid, turquoise cap.

Forget this.

Running a hand through my bangs, I smooth out my loose, sweaty hair that’s going all frizzy. The breeze in it feels good, cooling me down. I give the hat a kick toward the trash can. I don’t need to work on Prospero. I can do something else. There are other options besides fake-ass, racist Persnickety.

Undoing the apron strings at my back, I unloop the rest of my uniform, tossing the apron the way of the Persnickety cap. Go home. Sleep. Deal with it in the morning. I start down the platform’s stairs. I’m not expecting to get sprayed in the face.

“Ack!” I swipe my arm over the water in my eyes. “What the hell?”

It’s the Patchwork Man. He crowds the stairs, one hand rests on the railing while a colorful water gun spins around a finger in his other.

That must be the crap he soaked me with.

As if he hears me, the Patchwork Man whirls the water gun around. Except instead of his usual flashing grin, he gives me a scowl. “So what happened?”

“Nothing. Move.” I try to get around him, but he mirrors me, blocking the way.

“Really? Then how come you’re not taking your uniform with you? Thought you liked this new job, don’t y —”

“I don’t need it. And whatever you need out of there, find somebody else. Gah!”

I get sprayed again. He waves the water gun mockingly, his taunting smile back in place. “That’s for being disrespectful.”

I growl and storm back up the steps. “Dude, get lost!” I plant myself on the platform’s bench again.

the Patchwork Man follows, acts like he doesn’t hear the anger in my voice. “Something happened at work.”

His tone keeps it from being a question.

“None of your business,” I go.

Leap-frogging over the bench, he takes a seat beside me, my apron clutched in one hand. “So, why are you throwing away your work clothes?”

I cross my arms and stand my ground. “I just don’t want to go anymore. Okay?”

“That’s hardly an explanation.” Still crouching, the Patchwork Man stretches down and picks up the Persnickety cap I’d tossed. Shaking it twice, he delicately blows some of the dust off. “I thought you were doing this to help out your family.”

“I was . . . I am. I’ll figure out another way to do it.” I don’t know how sure I am about that. I am one-hundred percent on one thing. “Prospero’s . . . all jacked up.”

For a second, the Patchwork Man pauses, like he’s really thinking about this. Then he laughs his broken, yippy cackle and goes, “You see coyotes around this neighborhood?”

Coyotes? The thing that ate my grandma’s cat one summer? I gape at him. “The hell does that have to do with anything?”

“They’re excellent survivors!” He spins the water gun. “They’re not afraid of you. Not really. You can keep building, expanding — but the coyotes aren’t running away. They’ll simply figure out a way to live around you. With you, if needed.” Yellow eyes twinkle at me. “I thought you were more like them — a survivor.”

“Huh.” I’m not too convinced. But if I quit Persnickety, I’ll be back in square one: no job, no cash, and maybe no home to apply to college from. This was about survival, right? “Then do you need me to work at that place?”

In a flash, the Patchwork Man loops the apron over and around me and tosses the cap back on my head. “There you go!” he crows. Then, with a smirk that makes his yellow eyes glitter, he’s up and starting toward the stairs down the platform.

“Hey!” I stand there, the apron undone but hanging around my neck. Behind me, I hear the throaty whistle of the approaching train headed to Prospero. Never did tell Brian I quit. I could still go back. Do I want to? “Hey, mister?”

He keeps walking.

Not sure why, but I chase after him. Like a little kid who’s not sure what to do next, I reach out. I mean to grab his shirt, just give it a tug to get his attention. But I miss. I should be grabbing air. There isn’t anything to see. Until I realize I actually catch on to something. It’s prickly, but soft like . . . like a . . .

A tail?

I jerk away. And made the massive mistake of looking up. He’s turned around all right. But it’s not the usual guy at the train station who looks back at me. Where a man’s face should be, a coyote’s head cracks a lopsided grin. His big, conical ears flick forward and his long, pink tongue licks over his slender snout. The train’s lights reflect off his eyes, making them glow a ghostly green. Somewhere in the background, I hear the water gun go spritz, spritz.

Then, like magic, the coyote head flickers, then it’s gone completely, masked by a human face again. The Patchwork Man’s angular face is back, but those creepy, creepy yellow eyes are all the same.

His mouth opens, flashing hard, white teeth. “Don’t be late to work now.”

I bolt into the last car, the door snapping shut behind me. One man looks up from his smartphone, and I realize how loudly I’m panting.

I’m on the train. My fingers clamp around the smooth, cool, metal framework of a seat I don’t remember dropping into. The air inside is warm and stale, and the wheels outside go clack, clack, clack as we pull away from Caliban and closer to Prospero. Back to Persnickety. These are all real, solid things.

But . . .

I always peek in the middle of a slasher scene. I look out the window, out at the tracks, before the train picks up full speed. Sure enough, a skinny coyote with its bright, shiny eyes trots after the train. His tongue lolls out of his mouth in his fake chase, herding me back to Prospero — where I promised to survive. And from between those teeth in that big coyote grin, I swear I hear his broken laughter bouncing up and down the railroad tracks.