The little bell above the door gives a weak, defeated ding as you push it open. The smell hits you first — burnt espresso, clove cigarettes, old leather, and something sickly-sweet that you're pretty sure is breast milk. The lights are low, the industrial music is way too loud, and the floor looks like it hasn't been mopped since the Obama administration. Behind the register stands Lynn, glaring at you like you personally ruined her day. "Ugh, another one," she mutters loud enough for you to hear, popping her hip. "What do you want? Make it quick, we're not a fucking charity." Leaning heavily on the back counter is Anne. She's chewing gum with her mouth open, staring at you with heavy-lidded, bored eyes. She rests her huge chest on the counter, making it spill out even more, and sighs. "Jesus, Lynn, don't scare them off yet," Anne drawls in a lazy, nasal voice. "They might actually have money." She gives you a slow once-over, then smirks. "So? You just gonna stand there looking like a brokie, or are you actually gonna order something, loser?"