Beatrice dialed a number from memory. Her fingers were stiff, tapping the screen with deliberate, heavy strikes.
Sadie walked behind the counter and grabbed a heavy ceramic mug. She filled it from the burner that held the dark, sludgy coffee they'd brewed at 10:00 a.m. It was practically battery acid by now, but it was hot. She returned to the booth and set it down in front of Beatrice just as the woman hung up.
"Drink it," Sadie said. "You're shivering."
Beatrice looked at the black liquid as if Sadie had just served her motor oil. "I drink tea."
"We only have Lipton, and the water tastes like copper pipes. Drink the coffee. It'll warm you up."
Beatrice hesitated. She picked up the mug with both hands, letting the heat seep into her pale skin. She took a tiny sip. Her face immediately scrunched in profound disgust.
"This is abhorrent," she declared.
"I know," Sadie said, sitting in the booth opposite her. She didn't have to—she should have been wiping down the condiment station—but her feet were screaming, and she frankly didn't care anymore. "Costs two dollars."
A dry, rattling sound came from Beatrice's chest. It took Sadie a moment to realize the old woman was laughing.
"You are a very rude young woman, Sadie."
"And you're a stubborn old lady who almost died on my sidewalk."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. The hum of the neon sign buzzed aggressively in the background. Outside, the rain picked up, lashing against the greasy glass of the front window.
Sadie watched Beatrice. Stripped of the initial panic, Sadie could see the deep lines of weariness etched around the woman's mouth and eyes. It wasn't the physical exhaustion of a double shift; it was a different kind of heavy—a weight carried in the bones.
"Why were you walking?" Sadie asked, the question slipping out before her cynical barrier could stop it.