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III

Leila tossed her backpack onto a polished wooden table
in Adam’s, a nonpro t caf on the edge of Philadelphia’s
Brewerytown neighborhood that employed foster kids.
She slid onto the upcycled wooden bench, a reclaimed
church pew, that sat along one of the windows. Adam’s
had a hip, earthy feel, and the entire café was painted in
warm colors and decorated with art made by its patrons
and workers, who were almost always one and the same.
Exceptions to the regular clientele came when people
knew Sarika was behind the barista station, whipping
up creations that otherwise weren’t on the café’s menu.
Like right now.
Listen, I’m not judging or anything, Sarika shouted
over the roar of the café’s ancient, dying expresso ma
chine. The old, metal, bo shaped monster made a ca
cophony of hisses and squeals as steam pushed out a valve
on the opposite side. Oh my od this fucking thing
Sarika Serenity, please, Mr. Hathaway snapped,
peeking his head out from the small kitchen behind Sarika.
The little, blonde mustache under his nose was already
pushed up to the side as his mouth shifted up irritably.
“Remember, we’re here to learn how to communicate
with

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