Sam was gone when I woke up. I quietly poked my head out of the door, not wanting to be seen leaving his room. No one was in the hall, but I could hear the news playing in the lobby. I quickly slipped on my jacket and shoes before heading out the front door, again surprised when Pam jovially greeted me for the day.

The snow was falling heavily. The wet looking flakes slowly stacked onto one another and a soft crunching could be heard underfoot. Packing snow. Perfect for snowmen. I thought of my dad helping me roll a base the size of myself when I was little. The balls created criss-cross lines all over the fresh snow covered yard making ours the only plot of land to stand out in the still whiteness.

Maybe I should call Dad for Christmas, I thought. Maybe.

The image of the soft baby hairs, so fine, and the black ink underneath prominently telling the world they were worthy parents embedded itself in my skull. Something had changed. Perhaps it had changed long before the new baby’s birth.

The bright red of an old plaid blanket sticking out of the snow under the overpass broke my train of thought. As I walked by it I saw that it had been the home of someone last night. They were still there, sleeping under the little bit of warmth it provided. When I got close enough to see his face I noticed that the eyes were open and frosted over forever staring at the gray expanse above. I walked faster. He had nowhere to go.

The dead man made my mind spin with anger. This city was losing hope. My hands were visibly shaking through my pockets both with rage and cold, and I made a decision to do something that I haven’t done since I lost my secretary job. I walked into a coffee shop. A place to think. Local cafes had been my go to place in high school and college to just get away from the world for an hour or so. I hadn’t realized then what a luxury it was.

The line was long, and when I opened the door I could only take one step inside before I was in the line. The lighting was low and cozy. There was an electric fire blazing in the corner, surrounded by people in sweaters and on laptops. The tables were round and wooden, looking worn and old but in a modern shabby-chic way. Bright neon colors filled the black board ahead of me listing drinks and prices. I scanned the board looking for plain coffee. $1.99 plus tax.

I began to move my fingers around in my right pocket, feeling all of the change I had collected over the last few months accidentally left by guests. My fingers were stiff from the cold. I slowly felt out six quarters, six dimes, 3 nickels, and 8 pennies. I let out the breath I had been holding.

“You alright, Miss?” The elderly gentleman in front of me was looking at my disheveled face with concern. His gray eyes seemed to show genuine worry under his bushy eyebrows.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“You sure? You look...tired.” I knew his eyes were focused on the scratches on my forehead and not the circles under my eyes. I wasn’t sure if he was a nice old man or feeling me out to see if I was dangerous.

I am not sure why, but the last year and a half of losing my job, The Palace as my home, being ignored, alone, and finally the dead man under the overpass came out as a tear. Just one, but it was enough for the man, who moved his arm around my shoulder. “Tell me.”

Again a human touch. The light pressure felt so good, so instantly comforting. I began by describing the homeless man. The eyes open and frosted; the plaid blanket giving no warmth anymore. When we got to the counter the man paid for my coffee with his debit card. I let the change go in my pocket to be used another day. The shop was busy and the dark wooden table where the man led me hadn’t been bussed. There were a few pastry crumbs; but the man brushed them to the floor since these were the only available seats.

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We set our cups down. I wrapped my hands around the cardboard and interlaced my fingers. The heat spread through my palms, and I savored every bit of the warmth.

“So,” the man gave me a weathered smile, “what seems to be troubling you, young lady?”

A wispy breath came out of me, “It’s…it’s been a long day.” The man looked at me expectantly. Was he actually listening to me?

My story spiraled from the dead man to the shelter closing to my situation of finding a job.

“And the shelter wouldn’t have shut its doors if it wasn’t for that damned Volunteer Tax,” I gasped. Why the hell had I said that?

But the man just stared at me and took a sip from his cup leaving a trace of foam on his mustache. “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” he said. No threats to make the call, no proclaiming his loyalty to Persim. A wave of confidence rushed through me. An actual physical feeling that my words were not going to cause anger.

I began to tell this kind stranger that I felt it was the lack of shelters and supply donations due to the new tax. So many places had already shut their doors since last winter. I told him about the one-legged man at the shelter who had been taken away.

“He wouldn’t have reacted that way if things had been different. I doubt he would have confronted anyone if he knew at the end of the day he would have something in his belly, but the 734 agents took away any chance he had for that.” I held my breath after I said that, remembering the rally where I last spoke my mind and the unkind reactions that followed. My head throbbed at the memory. Instead, he nodded.

“Hmm, makes sense,” he said. His eyes looked kind behind his wire framed glasses.

Somewhat shocked, I continued, needing to just get it out. I told him of the Speakeasy fire, and how the blame wasn’t being spread correctly. I told him everything except about the break in last night. That ordeal I kept to myself. I couldn’t say exactly why, but something about being heard made the words tumble over my lips like a waterfall. I had been part of the scenery in the East End for so long that it was euphoric to feel human again.

I paused to take a sip of my coffee before it grew too cold. It was when I stopped talking that I realized no one else was. The sounds of dishes clinking, customers mumbling, and the register beeping had ceased. I set my cardboard cup down and saw that all eyes were on me, their overpriced lattes steaming away, untouched.

I looked back to the old man, whose eyes seemed truly interested in what I had to say. He seemed not to care that the entire packed coffee shop was staring at our table. Unsure what to do, I moved my eyes to my cup. My stomach was tightening with every second of silence that passed.

The kind stranger laid his hand on my arm, “Then what happened?” he asked.

A few heads nodded quietly, showing their interest. I took a deep breath and continued my story. If someone called the 734 agents right now, I didn’t care. I felt real again. I described the day after the fires and my journey to the Speakeasy. I talked about the police trying to stop us from seeing what had been done.

“It was obviously a cover up for something,” I finished.

“We have to do something,” a woman’s voice sounded from behind me and a little to the right.

“Well,” I thought about it. “We should. It’s been years since the last documented protest. Since President Persim has been in office, the polls brag that the only gatherings have been for her rallies...She brings peace,” I laughed.

I looked at the old man and swallowed the last mouthfuls of my coffee before I continued. Imagining what would happen if people actually protested like they did in the history books. “Wouldn’t it be something to march down to Persim Tower and protest the tax?” I smiled to myself. An insane idea. Actually a bat shit crazy one. But no one in the shop moved or said anything.

I felt restless in the quietude. I looked up from my empty cup. Everyone was on their phone, texting away. One man shouted, “My cousin loves the livestream I put up of what you said. She’s in.” He had filmed me! I didn’t have to worry about the drone police hearing me if everything I had just said suddenly found its way to the social media world. My insides tightened before turning to jelly, but no one was aware of the anxiety mounting in my gut. I could feel the energy in the cafe growing. The air felt electric and my veins felt like copper wire. It was as if their reactions were a tangible substance that I craved.

Following this man’s declaration most of the patrons in the shop let out murmurs of agreement. The older man that had paid for my coffee reached across the table and held my hand, “It’s been so long since this city has stood up for its own.” He smiled and pulled me up by my hand.