The morning started like it always did—casual voices, sharp little jokes, the kind of chatter people used to hide the ache underneath. “Oo, lovely. Thank you, love,” someone said, accepting whatever comfort was being offered in that ordinary tone. Even the idea of tipping felt awkward, almost too intimate, like hands were meant to pass plates, not feelings. They both pretended it was nothing, but nothing about the day was normal. Nothing about anyone sounded steady.

“Is there something dead interest on that thing? Oh, no,” the conversation continued, trying to turn away from whatever sat heavy in the air. But it didn’t work. It never worked for long.

Sam appeared across the room like a question nobody wanted to answer. He didn’t look right—too quiet, too tense, like he’d been holding his breath for days and had finally run out of places to put the panic.

“Hey, Sam. You all right?” the voice asked.

Sam managed a small, polite reply. “Yeah.”

Then the offer: “Can I get you anything?”

The answer came too quickly. “Well, I guess that’s a no then.”

It wasn’t food he wanted. It wasn’t anything you could hand over. It was reassurance—something solid, something that would make the world stop shifting beneath their feet. But reassurance was thin that day, stretched to breaking.

A woman—tired eyes, careful smile—turned her attention elsewhere. “Hello, lovely. These aren’t both for me.” The words were light, but her reason wasn’t. “They’re for my Georgie. Anything to put a little smile on his face.” The plea sat behind the sentence, unspoken and desperate: Please, let him be okay. Please, let the people he loves still be there.

“Poor Georgie. People need to have him in their thoughts. I don’t know.”

As she spoke, another thread of worry tugged at everyone else. Georgie wasn’t just “going through something.” Georgie was drowning in it—court fees, endless bills, the kind of financial bleeding that didn’t just hurt the bank account. It poisoned the air in the room. It made every conversation sound like a countdown.

“And why someone thinks that goes with the territory?” someone muttered.

“Only his business,” another voice replied, guarded. “You know he’s having to self shuttle with.”

A newcomer—someone who hadn’t heard every detail—looked startled. “No, no, I didn’t know. I’m really sorry.”

But even sympathy wasn’t enough. The situation was too tangled, too public, too cruel. “Oh, is there nothing George can do?” the question came out soft, almost childlike in its helplessness.

The answer landed like a weight. “Oh, it’s all such a mess at the moment. The court fees are bleeding him dry.”

Someone tried to guess who might be involved—because when people couldn’t control events, they often tried to control blame. “Oh, I bet Todd’s got it as well, isn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t know,” came the response. “I’ve seen him.”

Even that sounded wrong—like the speaker didn’t trust what they’d seen, like they were unsure whether reality itself had changed.

Then the detail arrived, sharp and specific: George had messaged Todd—about what Todd was selling up. Did Todd reply? Did he even read it?

“Not a ticky bird. Does he?”

“No,” someone said. “Well, he’s not in work at the moment. We’ve got hardly any jobs coming in. Maybe his focus is on Belfast now.”

Belfast. The word didn’t soothe anyone. It only widened the worry. It suggested distance. Absence. Silence that wasn’t accidental.

“So, he didn’t reply. Nothing.”

The room tightened around that sentence.

“Right. Brew time. Me thinks. Will he be partaking in one? Ronald.”

Ronald’s name came out like a stumble, a desperate attempt to bring things back to normal. Coffee, tea—small rituals. But the joke didn’t hold. The tension was too real. It pressed through every attempt to lighten the mood.

“Do you want to brew?”

“No.”

“I mean, I’ll make you one. I’ll make you one. I’ll make you one.”

Somewhere underneath the stubborn “no” was something like refusal to be comforted—because comfort implied the future might improve.

Then someone stepped too close to the truth.

“Please, just leave all this for now.”

But the truth didn’t wait for permission. It was already speaking.

“What’s the matter with you?” the question came again—only this time it wasn’t