The thing about espresso machines is that they're basically tiny controlled explosions happening inside a metal box, and when you think about it that way, it's actually remarkable that Betsy has lasted this long.

She goes at 2:47 PM on a Tuesday—which I know because I was mid-pull on Walter's drip coffee backup (he wanted to "try something different," which for Walter means a different mug), and there was this sound. Not a bang, exactly. More like a wheeze followed by a hiss followed by a noise I can only describe as mechanical despair, and then steam was coming from places steam should absolutely not be coming from.

"That seems bad," Walter observes from his stool.

"It's fine," I say, which is what I say when things are definitively not fine, and I'm already reaching for the emergency shutoff while also trying to remember where I put Todd's number, which is in my phone, which is in the back room, which is twelve feet away but might as well be twelve miles because I'm currently watching my livelihood leak onto the counter.

The customer waiting for her cortado—a woman I don't recognize, maybe mid-forties, sensible coat—takes a step back. Fair.

"I can do pour-over," I announce to no one in particular. "Pour-over is good. Pour-over is artisanal. People pay more for pour-over in Portland."

I'm not in Portland. I'm in northern Indiana, it's January, and my espresso machine has just staged a rebellion.

The next twenty minutes are a blur of damage control. I move the sensible-coat woman to a pour-over (she's gracious about it, which makes me want to cry), send Walter home with a free bag of beans as an apology for the chaos (he draws a smiley face in the air with his finger as he leaves, which is either encouragement or commentary), and text Jennifer seven increasingly unhinged messages about backup equipment options.

Her response: I know a guy with a commercial machine!

My response: Who?

Her response: Todd!!!! Duh!!!!

Four exclamation points. Jennifer operates exclusively in extremes of punctuation.