The wind howled against the plate-glass windows of the Crystal Oak Restaurant.

Frost patterned the corners of the glass in thick, white needles.

Inside, the radiator rattled, barely keeping the chill at bay.

I wiped down the laminate table, my hands red from the cold dishwater.

Trevor’s voice cut through the low murmur of the lunchtime crowd.

“Out. Now. We don’t serve tramps.”

I looked up, clutching my damp rag.

Trevor stood by the entrance, his fingers dug into the shoulder of an old man’s threadbare coat.

The old man shivered, his boots caked with grey slush.

His face was pale, his eyes watery and dim.

“I have money to pay,” the old man whispered.

He reached into his pocket with a trembling hand.

Trevor snatched the crumpled bills and threw them onto the wet floor.

“This garbage isn’t enough for a cup of coffee here,” Trevor sneered.

He raised his hand to shove the old man toward the revolving door.

I dropped my cloth and stepped between them.

“Stop it, Trevor,” I said.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I did not back down.

“He’s a customer. He deserves to be treated like a human being.”

Trevor turned his glare on me, his eyes narrowing into slits.

“Mind your business, Emily, or you’ll be out on the street with him.”

“I’ll pay for his meal,” I said.

I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out my tips from the morning shift.

I placed the crumpled bills into Trevor’s hand.

Trevor looked at the money, then spat on the floor near my shoes.

“You’re a fool, just like your father was,” Trevor muttered.

The mention of my father made my breath catch.

Before I could speak, the old man stood up straighter.

The tremble in his hands suddenly vanished.

He pulled a sleek, black smartphone from the pocket of his tattered coat.

He pressed a single button.

Within seconds, three men in dark suits pushed through the restaurant doors.

They bypassed the hostess stand and stood behind the old man.

“Mr. Whitmore,” the lead man said, bowing his head slightly. “Your car is waiting.”

Trevor froze.