"Coffee," Sylvia said, already walking. Jon scrambled after her, his heels clacking on the tile. "The board is in from New York, and they're in a mood. Something about the Q4 projections. I don't know, and I don't care—what I care about is that they have their coffee orders filled before the meeting breaks."
She thrust a folded slip of paper into Jon's hand. "Beancounter's, across the street. You know it?"
Jon didn't. "I—"
"Of course you don't." Sylvia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Out the front doors, cross at the light, it's the green awning. You can't miss it. Even you can't miss it."
Jon unfolded the slip. Six drinks, written in precise handwriting. A cortado, two oat milk lattes, a black drip with an extra shot, something called a "flat white, extra dry, 140 degrees exactly," and a chamomile tea.
"I don't have a wallet," Jon said.
Sylvia was already holding out a company card between two fingers, the way someone might hold a tissue. "Don't lose it. Don't buy yourself anything. Don’t fuck this up. And for God's sake, don't dawdle—you've got ten minutes."
