"Here—drink this," Leticia said, pushing the cup toward a bent figure on the curb. He blinked like he was trying to read the moon through fog. "Thanks," he muttered, hands trembling as he lifted the lid. "Slow," Leticia said. "Don't spill it." She kept her voice flat. She had learned to be direct on nights like this. He sniffed and laughed, the sound losing its balance. "You make milk tea at this hour?" "Two in the morning is prime for tips from night-shift cab drivers and lonely office ghosts," she said. "You look like a ghost." He coughed, then spat a thin laugh. "You shouldn't be on this corner alone." "I'm not alone," she said. "The order board is full." She slid the paper sleeve into his hand, fingers brushing the web of calluses that came from years of carrying trays. He stared at her hand, then at her face. For a moment he stopped trying to lift the cup and only looked. "You're too pretty to be making milk tea." Leticia didn't smile. She kept her jaw tight. "Pretty or not, someone has to work the graveyard shift. Some of us have bills." "You don't need bills." He reached out, half-uncertain, and touched the scar near her jaw like he was checking the weather. "You could be on a stage. Or on TV." "Stage's taken," she said. He laughed again, this time not because anything was funny. "What happened