The customers were always very understanding when the coffee machines broke. It helped that many were the nurses and doctors that the barista saw everyday, looking for a few grounds to pour over a frazzled mind as a resurrection ritual. But even the patients or their hangers-on were usually able to conjure from a well of understanding when things broke down. Which was often enough.

The single barista ran the stall from 7am to 9pm daily, “proudly serving Stubb’s Coffee” but without access to any of their supply chain, their union, or their benefits. It was never busy in the same way that the Stubb’s downtown was, never lines hanging out the door, but bury enough that the occasional bathroom and single lunch break at the adjacent cafeteria felt almost like betrayals. Things had been harder in Slovenia, to be sure, and the monthly checks sent home were keeping the family afloat. And losing a job risked losing the all-important green card that kept her slinging java in the American south even after her student visa (for literature, of all things) had expired.

But if only the coffee stand had been built with a modicum of care when the new hospital had been thrown up. If only the repair guys, normally used to fixing IV pumps upstairs, didn’t try to flirt with her when the ice machine had its weekly breakdown. And if only the espresso machine would live up to its life’s purpose and occasionally make a little actual espresso, as a treat.

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