The grinder doesn't die gracefully.

It makes a sound like a cat being stepped on inside a garbage disposal, shudders twice, and then emits a thin wisp of smoke that smells like burnt ambition and mechanical failure.

"No," I say, which is helpful. "No, no, no—"

The grinder does not care about my feelings.

I unplug it, plug it back in—because that fixes everything, right?—and am rewarded with a spark that makes me jump backward into the pastry display. Three croissants hit the floor. The grinder sits there, smoking faintly, radiating smugness.[^1]

Betsy hisses from behind the counter like she's laughing.

"Traitor," I tell her.

I could call Todd. That's the normal thing to do. Pick up the phone, explain the problem, wait for him to come fix it like he's done a dozen times before.

Instead, I wrap the grinder in a dish towel like it's a wounded animal, tuck it under my arm, and walk one block east.

I've never actually been inside Todd's shop.

I know where it is. I've walked past it. I've seen the sign—TODD'S COFFEE & RESTAURANT EQUIPMENT REPAIR, black letters on a cream background, no logo, no fuss. But I've never crossed the threshold, never seen where he goes when he's not in my shop being unfazed by whatever disaster I've created.

The door is heavier than I expect. Old wood, solid. A bell chimes—different from mine, deeper—and then I'm inside.

It's... organized.

Not aggressively organized, not sterile, but intentional. Tools hang on pegboards in neat rows, each shape outlined so you know exactly where it goes. Workbenches run along two walls, surfaces clear except for the project currently in progress. Labeled drawers. A system. Everything in its place because someone put it there and keeps putting it there, day after day.

It's everything my shop isn't.

Todd looks up from something mechanical and complicated. He's got a magnifying lamp pulled close, safety glasses pushed up on his forehead, and there's a smudge of grease on his jaw that I'm not going to think about.

"Grinder?" he asks, like women show up cradling smoking appliances all the time.

"It made a noise." I set it on the nearest clear surface. "A bad noise. And then smoke. And then spite."

He pulls the magnifying lamp over, unwraps my dish towel, and peers inside like a doctor examining a patient. I watch his hands—steady, certain, knowing exactly where to probe.

"Motor's seized." He doesn't look up. "Bearings, probably. When's the last time you cleaned it?"

"I clean it every day."

"Inside the motor housing?"

"The... there's an inside?"

He almost smiles. Almost.

"I can fix it," he says. "Couple hours. Need to order a part, but I've got one that'll work temporarily."

"You just have spare grinder parts lying around?"

"I have spare everything lying around." He gestures vaguely at the labeled drawers. "That's the job."

I should leave. The diagnosis is done. He'll fix it, I'll pick it up later, transaction complete. That's how this works.

I don't leave.

"You want coffee?" I blurt, and then realize I'm not in my shop, I can't make coffee here, this is absurd. "I mean—I brought beans. I don't know why. I just grabbed them when I was leaving. Guatemalan. The good stuff. Not that you probably drink—do you drink coffee?"

He looks at me for a long moment. The almost-smile gets closer to the surface.

"Black," he says. "Simple."

"I didn't know that."

"You never asked."

This lands somewhere between observation and accusation and I don't know what to do with it, so I set the bag of beans on his workbench next to my broken grinder and try not to spiral.

"You know you could've called," he says, turning back to the machine. "I do pickups."

"I know."

Neither of us addresses why I didn't.

He works. I watch. The shop is quiet except for the small sounds of tools and concentration—metal on metal, the click of something being tested, his breathing steady and unhurried. He moves like someone who's done this ten thousand times. Not bored, just... practiced. Faithful to the work.

"How long have you been doing this?" I ask.

"Equipment repair? Twelve years." He doesn't look up. "Started with restaurant stuff, expanded to coffee when the third-wave places started opening. Espresso machines are finicky."

"Tell me about it."

"You already know." Now he does look up. "You know more than most people I work with. You just panic first and remember second."

I should be offended. I'm not.

"That's... accurate."

"It's not a criticism." He sets down his tool, straightens. "You show up anyway. That's the part that matters."

Something shifts in the room. Or in me. I can't tell which.

I think about Hannah this morning, staring at her sister's grave. About forgiveness being something you do alone. About conversations that don't get finished.

Todd fixes things. That's who he is. Day after day, he shows up and puts things back together—machines, systems, whatever's broken. There's no drama in it. No grand gesture. Just steady hands and a willingness to keep doing the work.

Faithfulness, I think. That's what this is. His mercies are new every morning.

"I should let you work," I say, and my voice comes out softer than I intended.

"Pick it up at five." He's already turned back to the grinder. "And bring more of those beans. I'll put coffee on."

I walk back to the shop with an empty space under my arm where the grinder was and a full space somewhere in my chest that I'm not going to examine too closely.

He said bring more beans.

He said he'll put coffee on.

That's not nothing. That's not nothing at all.

[^1]: Inanimate objects cannot be smug. I stand by my assessment.