Snippet #2401660

There were very few times when Donovan wished he was seeing things again. This was one of them.

Donovan’s breaths came quick in his chest, and he clutched the note tight in the palm of his hand as though that would make it disappear. He could make it disappear, in fact, but what would that do? If it were gone from his line of sight, that wouldn’t make the fact that he’d just been shot at in a park any less true. He’d seen two people hit and wondered if he’d just barely escaped with his own life. He really did hope those two other people were alright. He couldn't forgive himself for having been stupid enough to have listened to the little boy at the doorstep. Even though he'd really had nothing better to do at the time than chase his latest intrigue— even though he probably should have been sleeping after his midnight show— he'd gone, and if someone had gotten killed because of that—

He supposed he should stop abusing the piece of paper and get to doing what it said. He wasn't sure if he wanted anything to do with the people who'd left him these notes, but he did need his wallet back. He didn't make much money, but what little he had was either stuffed inside his mattress or in that slim wallet, which his pocket was quite notably missing. Not getting it back likely meant the difference in the number of dinners he had to look forward to in the coming month. If it meant chasing white rabbits to a café, then so be it.

Unlocking his bike from the pipeworks, he gave the chains and the rusting bits a once-over to ensure they were still functioning before reattaching the lock to the area just below the seat and setting off. The chains clicked and clunked where the gears had failed to shift them, and he had long since given up on trying to fix them. Riding up the massive hills— and San Francisco seemed to have so goddamned many of them— was sometimes a bit challenging, but his legs had become used to the pedaling over the years. His main focus now was making sure the thing didn't fall apart as he rode it.

Donovan wasn't exactly sure where 24th street was; he assumed it would have been after 23rd street and before 25th, but one could never be sure in such a chaotic city. Luckily, it couldn't be far away, as he was already on Oxford. Following it, he was sure he'd reach it eventually. It was on a corner, after all.

He stopped abruptly and turned himself around on reaching the next street corner. He'd gone from thirteenth street to twelfth— that was no way to make it to 24th street, was it? The change in direction left Donovan pedaling up the hill he'd gone coasting down, much to his chagrin. Coasting was one of the few enjoyable parts about biking everywhere, even with the rain in the fall and the snow in the winter and the feeling of falling on ice shortly thereafter. Donovan couldn't help a pang of dismay as his eternal optimism was punctured.

That said, even eternal optimism wasn't doing much for the scruffy man on the bike. After the shooting, his skin felt numb and his insides were twisted with a nagging guilt he knew he couldn't shake. He sailed past the alternating numbered and named streets, skimming their corners for anything that even vaguely resembled a café. He moved fast, weaving in and out of the lunchtime crowds with a handful of apologies thrown in out of instinct. Donovan was, regrettably, only half-paying attention, the other half a sea of roiling emotions he couldn't calm and refine into something more useful. He snaked over the sidewalk, first drifting toward the endless patchwork of chain-link fences to his right before nearly drifting so far left as to brush up against the traffic. He continued the pattern, lurching left and right, until his eyes finally caught sight of one of the most hideous signs he'd ever seen.

Donovan braked so hard his wheels squealed in protest. The rubber caught the pavement, and he skidded to a stop just under what he assumed to be a cup of neon green coffee wearing an equally heinously-colored pink sombrero. Yellow text declared the place to, indeed, be Santiago's Fusion Café. Donovan wondered what, exactly, it was a fusion of— initially, he'd just assumed it was a coffee shop belonging to a man named Santiago, but the presence of adobe alongside snowshoes gave it a distinct air of culturalization gone much, much too far. He chained his bike to the fence surrounding the patio— surprisingly upscale, for its surroundings, and reminiscent of that of a cushy hotel— and stepped inside, where he was greeted by a curtain of heavily chilled air. The cold was a shock, leaving Donovan to wonder to himself when the last time he'd actually felt what it was like to be around a functioning air conditioner.

There was no one inside, and aside from the humming refrigerator displays and the water heaters, there wasn't a sound to be heard— no music, no voices, no running water or clinking plates. It was almost eerie, the way the café seemed so dead compared to the rushing crowds outside. Shouldn't the place be packed? On glancing at the menu, however, the prices revealed the reason behind the café's silence. Donovan could practically feel his wallet withering at the sight. He supposed he'd just have to wait it out. Donovan took a seat just out of sight of the register, praying to his lucky stars that the barista didn't see him and wonder why he was sitting there without buying anything. It wasn't right, just using their space like this, but he couldn't afford half of what they were charging. Especially not without a wallet.

...not that he wouldn't buy anything if the barista asked. Could he do that to her?

Donovan bit the inside of his cheek and turned to stare at the door. It was going to be a long wait before anyone showed up to break the silence, wasn't it? He just wanted his wallet back. And maybe a croissant.