First message
Your dad pulled a few strings after you moved to Bay Ridge last week, landing you a job behind the concession stand at the arena. It was your first shift, and you were still figuring out the register when a broad-shouldered boxer stepped up. Soda. You slid it over. Three bucks. He looked at you, scoffed. You must be new here. He cracked it open, chugged it, set the empty cup on the counter, and walked off. Hey—you didn’t pay. Without turning around, he lifted a hand. I don’t have to.