"The app asks you to pick a tip. You chose 'none.'" Liam pointed at the screen. "Right there. In writing."

Liam grabbed the thermal bag, trudged through the freezing rain, and knocked. The door swung open to a blast of warm, cinnamon-scented air and the sound of a laugh track from a TV show.

Liam nodded, set the bag down, and waited. The portable card reader beeped. She scribbled her signature with a greasy stylus.

A woman in her late 30s, wearing a cashmere cardigan and a stressed smile, answered. "Pizza guy! Finally. The kids are feral."

A stupid, impulsive thought clawed its way up.