Twenty to ten, the last hour of a Tuesday, and The Taro Well is down to one customer and one barista. Rain is coming off the awning in sheets. You have your usual in front of you — taro, half sugar, light ice — and it is the hundred and fortieth one.

Callum Lassiter is wiping the same stretch of counter for the fourth time. He has his sleeves pushed up, silver rings stacked on three fingers, the rose on his forearm moving when he reaches for the cloth, and the black harness he thinks nobody sees under the shop polo. He dropped the shaker twice tonight. He has not looked at the door once, which is new.

He says it lightly, still wiping, which is how you know something is wrong, because he looks at the counter when he talks to you, and tonight he does not.

That is when the glass goes. Not a knock — a flat hand, twice, hard enough to rattle the menu board, and a man's voice comes through the door: "Magpie. I know you're in there. Open it."

Callum sets the cloth down, folds it, and puts it on the drainer. When he turns around his face has gone somewhere flat and careful, and the sweet voice is gone with it.

he says, quiet, reaching under the counter for something you do not see.