"You make fifty thousand a month? Figures." The man's laugh landed like a thrown coin. He pushed his coffee cup away and watched the cream break like something he found amusing. Riley sat very still. Her fingers closed around the stem of the water glass until it rasped against the table. The dress she'd worn for the evening glimmered under the diner lights—clean lines, expensive fabric. She'd worn it because her mother had insisted: "Dress the part," Evelyn had said, smoothing a fold as if the cloth could armor her daughter from the town. "Figures," he repeated, and the patron next to them snorted. Then he stood up so suddenly the chair scraped. The plate came—the waiter still holding a dish on his palms—and it hit the table with a sharp clap and then toppled, a ring of sauce blooming across Riley's lap. Someone breathed. The café had gone loud in a second: forks, chair legs, a baby crying from the counter, the radio cut fifty percent louder by nervous hands. "Hey—" the waiter started. The man didn't wait. He flicked a hand at Riley as if the stain were a personal flaw. "Don't get above yourself." Riley didn't raise her voice. She made it worse for him by being steady. "You throw a plate," she said, "you cover the damage." He smirked. "You expect me to pay for that?" He reached for his coat, like a gentleman leaving, but