no one kept the receipt.

He brought a second cup to the shelter beneath the dead substation. The man who sat there tried to pay him. He waved the coins away. After that, on wet evenings, he brought two cups without asking.

Weeks later, he arrived with empty hands. His shift had been cut; he had walked past the café. At the edge of the shelter, he began a careful explanation, as though there were an agreement he had failed to honour.

The other man moved his coat from the dry chair and opened a flask. “Sit. I've got enough.” Rain struck the transformer housings. They drank from different cups this time.