The Offer

The next night, I rehearse different approaches while stocking shelves. Too casual might seem disinterested. Too serious might scare her off.

"Hey Dee, you like movies?" No, too generic. Sounds like something a middle schooler would say.

"Want to grab breakfast after our shifts sometime?" Better, but still missing something. Doesn't capture the energy she brings everywhere.

I tap my fingers against the shelf in my signature rhythm, counting beats. Perfect timing matters in everything, especially asking someone out.

The bell chimes at 11:42 PM as a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit enters. He heads straight for the liquor section, grabs a bottle of cheap whiskey, and brings it to the counter.

"Rough day?" I ask, ringing him up.

"Wife found out about the secretary," he mutters, not meeting my eyes. "Fifteen years of marriage down the drain."

"That'll be $6.75."

He slides a ten-dollar bill across the counter. "Don't ever get married, kid."

"Wasn't planning on it tonight," I reply, counting his change.

The bell chimes again. I look up to see Miguel Santos standing in the doorway, wearing the same wrinkled earth-tone shirt I'd seen him before. A faint scent of cigarettes follows him in. His eyes methodically scan the store, before finally settling on me. That eyebrow scar of his catches the fluorescent light as he stands there, one hand casually resting on the door frame, his weight shifted slightly to his good leg. The slight tension in his jaw tells me he's not here for drink or late-night snacks.

"José," he says with a slight nod, using my fake name naturally.

"Miguel." I hand the customer his change and receipt. "Have a good night, sir."

The customer shuffles out, clutching his bottle like a life preserver. Miguel waits until the door closes behind him before approaching the counter. He moves with that slight limp I'd noticed before, more pronounced tonight.

"Need something?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral. I haven't seen Miguel since he gave me the ID and money.

"Just browsing." He wanders toward the magazine rack, thumbing through issues of Time and Newsweek with casual disinterest.

I clean the counter, watching him in my peripheral vision. Something's off. He's too tense, shoulders tight despite his attempt at looking relaxed.

Another customer enters, a teenager buying cigarettes with what's clearly a fake ID. I sell them anyway. Manny's policy is clear: "Don't need to be strict about age restrictions unless the cops are watching."

After the kid leaves, Miguel approaches the counter, glancing over his shoulder at the door.

"How's the job working out?" he asks quietly.

"Pays the bills, but not enough".

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. An opportunity."

I lean forward slightly. "What kind of opportunity?"

"Not here." Miguel's voice drops even lower. "I need help, Carlos. I need someone I can trust."

The use of my real name sends a chill through me. I glance at the security mirror in the corner, making sure no one else is in the store.

"What kind of help?"

"The kind that pays better than this place." He gestures around the store. "I can get you real documents. Not just driver's license, but Social Security card, birth certificate, everything you need to be legal permanently."

The offer hangs between us. Legal documents would mean stability, the ability to open bank accounts, get better jobs, maybe even apply for loans.

"What's the catch?"

Miguel's fingers tap against the counter, not in rhythm like mine, but nervously. "There are risks. And you might see those Colombians again."

My arm throbs with phantom pain where the knife cut me. "Why me?"

"You're not afraid to risk, and if everything works out, Maria will be actually safe."

Before I can respond, the bell chimes again. Miguel straightens up, casual mask back in place.

"Think about it," he says. "Come by for lunch tomorrow if you're interested. Around noon. I'll explain everything then."

He buys a pack of cigarettes and leaves, the bell marking his exit.

I stand behind the counter, mind racing. Legal documents would be invaluable. But "risks" and "Colombians" in the same conversation is a red flag the size of Florida.

The night drags on. A few customers come and go: truckers buying caffeine pills, an insomniac browsing magazines for an hour before buying gum, a pair of drunk college kids trying to buy more beer.

At 2:37 AM, the bell chimes. Dee walks in, but something's different. Her usual energy is dimmed, shoulders slumped, movements slower.

"Motor oil still hot?" she asks, but her voice lacks its usual playfulness.

"Fresh batch." I pour her a cup before she reaches the counter. "Rough night?"

"Some executive had a party in his office. Champagne and cake everywhere." She accepts the coffee with a grateful nod. "Fifteen wine glasses with lipstick stains. Guess how many trash cans they used? Zero."

"People are animals."

"Rich people are worse animals." She takes a long sip of coffee. "At least animals don't expect someone else to clean up their mess."

I grab a honeybun from the rack and slide it across the counter. "On the house. Sounds like you earned it."

Her smile returns, small but genuine. "My knight in shining... polyester uniform."

"It's a glamorous life."

She laughs, and I know this is the moment. Perfect timing.

"So, I was thinking," I begin, my heart suddenly racing faster than it did during the knife fight, "maybe we could grab something to eat sometime? When we're both off work?"

Dee looks at me for a long moment, then smiles. "José, are you asking me on a date?"

"Depends. If you say yes, then absolutely. If you say no, then I was just concerned about your nutrition."

She laughs again, louder this time. "Smooth. Very smooth."

"I try."

"Yes," she says, nodding. "I'd like that."

Relief and excitement wash through me. "Great. That's... great."

"How about tomorrow? Before your shift? I could meet you around 8 PM?"

"Tomorrow's complicated. Got this thing with a friend. How about Saturday?"