He was exhausted in the quiet way—hands trembling simply from being awake too long. He drove to McDonald’s because it was the only place still lit, still open, still willing to hand you something warm without asking why your eyes looked like that. He ordered to go, nodded at the cashier, and tried to keep his face neutral the way tired people do when they’re hiding the truth: the truth that tonight he didn’t have room for one more problem.
The card reader declined. He felt the heat in his cheeks, forced a small laugh, and tried again. Declined again. He slid the slip toward himself like he could hide it, like nobody would notice the word on it. He started to step aside, ready to pretend he’d “forgotten something” and leave before embarrassment could catch up.
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