Page 15

I pour a cup of coffee, add two shots of espresso, a swig of hazelnut syrup, and a dash of Calm. Angel, one of our regulars who works at the Mayfield spelltech factory down the street, accepts it with raised eyebrows.

“You usually give me three shots.”

“Remember your ‘Kat, never give me this much caffeine during the second shift’ lecture?” I raise an eyebrow back at him.

He salutes me with his cup in response before taking a long gulp.

“Thanks for the Calm,” Angel remarks. “It feels good.”

“Of course it does,” I say.

“You guys are lifesavers,” he says gratefully.

I wipe down the counter, hiding my grin.

Pick-Me-Ups can’t actually do anything if you don’t want them to—everyone forgets that all potions vary in effectiveness with the intention of the brewer and the consumer.

The most anxious person in the world could drink a whole cauldron of Calm and it wouldn’t do anything unless they wanted it to.

But people love our coffee, and helping someone have a better day is one of my favorite parts about working here.

Jordan, our manager, yawns as they pull their baseball cap down over their eyes. “We’re out of the Guatemalan beans,” they note.

“I got it, you stay put,” I say, patting them on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” Jordan huffs. “Hey, you look nice today.”

“I have a date later,” I admit. I can’t help the grin that steals onto my face.

I’m wearing one of Mom’s blouses, the deep green linen spellwoven into a pattern that looks like scales.

It hangs loosely over my cropped top, and I have it tied open around my waist. I love the look of my arms in it, how it flows and offsets my tight black denim jeans stuffed into black combat boots.

Suddenly I’m nervous, a fluttering rising in my stomach. Confidence can only get you so far—what if Brenda doesn’t like me ? What if she thinks my original spells are pointless and dumb?

I take a deep breath and focus. I like her, she likes me. We’re going to have an amazing time , I think to myself.

In the back, I pass Dad pulling a tray of dan tats out of the oven. The egg custards look perfect, their centers wobbling ever so slightly as Dad sets them down to cool.

I reach over and grab one, the crust flaking on my fingers, and I blow on it before popping it into my mouth.

Dad sees me and scowls. “Hey!”

I almost tease him about my job as quality control of all baked goods, a running joke we started back when he opened the shop, but I’m in no mood for it today.

I’m still angry about his reaction to Mom’s stuff, and I steal another hot pastry and eat it in front of him, raising my eyebrows at him daringly.

Dad opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but he just grumbles under his breath.

“You gonna make cha siu bao today?” I ask, peering around the kitchen. I was hoping that would be my lunch.

“There’s still some in the display case,” Dad says. “Warming spell.”

“The ones fresh out of the oven are best.”

“Weren’t you getting something?” Dad rolls his eyes at me.

I stick my tongue out and grab a bag of Guatemalan beans, hefting it over my shoulder.

Working here at the shop is one of the routines that hasn’t changed at all since Mom died.

It’s the same frazzled customers and Dad experimenting in the back as I work with Jordan and Carlos and Kyla.

This has always been Dad’s domain, a place where he can brew and bake to his heart’s content.

Mom loved it, too; she’d have her own table as she’d work and grade papers, making fun of us as we got covered in flour and coffee grounds.

Dad has always loved coffee, loved the rhythmic steps of taking whole beans and grinding them up and creating different brews, seeing peoples’ faces light up when they get their Pick-Me-Up and caffeine fix.

He loves getting to be creative, loves having a place to brew and bake, coming up with new drinks and pastries.

When people see “Sam Woo,” they think of Chinese barbecue, succulent roast pork, and crispy duck skin.

Dad always laughs when people confuse them; he knows there’s that association, and he likes to play with it, likes to say he’s the Sam Woo with the coffee, not the barbecue, and hey, there are so many Woos in LA of course there was bound to be another Sam.

He doesn’t tell them that he took Mom’s last name. He chose to be a Woo, and she used to tease him that it was just so he could make this joke.

It was the three of us, our little family, and without Mom it feels like an unsteady stool missing a leg, and Dad and I are on different sides of this impossible chasm.

I miss her so much.

I waddle back with the bag, plopping it on the ground and ripping the sack open. I start to fill the coffee grinders, swiping a rune on each of them to start the process and then another to start a fresh batch brewing in each pot.

“Thanks,” Jordan groans, and I notice bags under their eyes as they yawn again. “Sorry, I’m just so tired.”

The hot ginger tea I had steeping earlier should be done. I pour in a spoonful of Revive before adding a dram of poppyseed powder and a squeeze of lemon. I hand it to Jordan. “Why did you even come in today? It’s first day after a full moon, right?”

Jordan takes a deep sip. “How’d you know? Oh man, you put poppyseed in this.”

“Good for aches and pains. You know transformations take so much out of you.”

Jordan groans. “I’m old. Every day a new part of my body decides to hurt, so I just forget the extra once-a-month part. Maybe I’m just tired trying to keep up with Tim. It was his first run last night.”

I empty the sack of beans into the last grinder and grin at them. “Tim went with you all! That’s amazing!”

Tim is Jordan’s twelve-year-old son; he’s been excited for his first transformation all year. Werewolf puberty can be random: Some kids grow a bit of fang or get a bit more rowdy or furry on the full moon, or transform in stages slowly; some kids get it all at once.

Dad starts stacking egg custards in the display case. “Did I hear that right, Jordan? You came into work the first day after a full moon run, and your first one with your kid?”

“You need the help, old man! It’s my job to be here.”

“Go home or you’re fired,” Dad says playfully.

“You wouldn’t. You need me too much.”

“I’ll make Kat the manager.”

“She can’t even manage her own hat! She’s always stealing mine,” Jordan says, looking at me.

I take off my baseball cap and sure enough, there’s JORDAN REED stitched in their wife’s dainty embroidery. I had grabbed it off the hook this morning because I forgot mine at home.

“Can you ask Rachel if she’d put my name on mine?” I ask, tracing the cute embroidered flower next to Jordan’s name.

“Aw, she’d love that,” Jordan says.

“You should ask her that when you see her in a minute because you’re going home,” Dad says.

“Fine, fine,” Jordan says. “Don’t miss me too much.”

They ruffle my hair once more before hanging up their hat and wandering out the door to catch the street trolley home.

I settle into the familiar rhythms of work.

I already have oat milk steamed when Davey and Todd arrive during their midafternoon break, bickering about who is treating who to coffee and who covered the trolley fare home last night, and I recharge the warming spells on the glass display case of pastries just as a group of parents and their toddlers come in after their usual Saturday playdate.

A frail-looking Chinese man wearing a vest over his pajamas steps to the register and regards me with his solemn eyes, three gold teeth gleaming from his smile.

“Zou san, Uncle Chau,” I say, pouring his usual jasmine tea with a shot of Rest Well.

The old man’s eyes twinkle as he takes his cup. He’s not actually related to any of us, but he’s been a family friend as long as I can remember, his humble apothecary providing the herbs and ingredients for our Pick-Me-Ups.

“You need to practice your Cantonese more,” Uncle Chau teases me. “Your accent is atrocious.”

“Maybe you should visit more instead of having me come to your store to pick up supplies,” I say playfully as I hand him a pineapple bun.

Uncle Chau rolls his eyes and takes his tea and pastry to his corner booth, settling in with a Chinese newspaper.

Little Gabby from the play group immediately presses her face to the display case, her eyes widening as her chubby baby cheeks press against the glass.

“I saved this one for you.” I laugh, taking out the last round raspberry bun, its poofy sweetness almost overflowing the paper wrapper it’s baked in, its red center sweet and jammy.

Mira, Gabby’s mom, mouths Thank you as she rounds out her order with coffee and a loaf of milk bread. “Oh, I forgot my purse,” she says with a frown.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dad says, pouring fresh milk into the steamer. He presses his palm to it and draws the runes activating it, turning to her with a smile. “You did such amazing work fixing these up the other week, they take half as much mana to charge as they used to.”

“Sammy, do you have decaf?” Amir asks in a tone nearing panic, his two sons shrieking behind him.

“Of course I do,” Dad says, stepping up to pour drinks as I ring everyone up.

I smile, swept up in the hustle and bustle of our regular weekend shift, the smell of freshly baked bread everywhere, coffee beans roasting, magic humming away in the background, the gentle glow of Pick-Me-Ups ready for customizing for every order.

People talk and laugh, deep in conversation.

An impromptu study group starts in the corner, table overflowing with books and scrolls, college students cramming for a test. The parents from the group are now enjoying their drinks as their children eat their buns with their hands, peeling off piece by piece.

Here and now there is no prophecy, just everyday people living their lives, and I’m a part of that, a single thread woven into a deep and intricate tapestry of life.