The Tenth Cup

The coffee began pouring after the Counterman left the register.

Not from the machine. Odessa had watched the machine’s glass pot remain empty, its heating plate cold beneath a skin of dust. The sound came from behind her instead: a patient, liquid trickle, followed by the delicate clink of porcelain.

She turned.

A white cup sat on the counter beside the lottery display. Steam rose from it. The coffee inside was black enough to reflect the fluorescent tubes, though the tubes were still flickering from the lot-light incident. Beside the cup lay the laminated card.

Odessa did not touch either one.

The Counterman had gone through the stockroom door. She had heard it close. There was no back exit in the stockroom, only shelves of motor oil, paper towels, and a freezer full of ice that never melted. Still, the door stood shut with the solemnity of a door separating countries.

From the diner came Femmie’s voice. “Dess?”

Odessa’s hand moved toward the bell beneath the counter, then stopped. Rule Four said the lot lights were out. Rule Four said get behind the counter and count to sixty. She had counted to sixty. It did not say what to do when the dark came inside with you.

“Femmie?”

“I’m here.” A pause. “Are you alone?”

Odessa looked at the steaming cup. “No.”

Femmie came through the pass-through carrying a pie knife. She saw the cup and went still. The knife lowered until its tip touched the linoleum.

“How many?” she asked.

“Customers?”

“Don’t be clever.”

“That’s difficult for me.”

Femmie’s eyes remained on the coffee. “How many cups?”

Odessa counted the visible ones. There were seven stacked beside the machine, one in the sink, and the new cup on the counter.

“Nine,” she said.

Femmie slapped the pie knife down. “Don’t count things he pours.”

The phone rang.

Both women looked toward it. The red numbers on the wall clock read 2:22.

Odessa reached for the receiver. Femmie caught her wrist.

“Once,” Odessa whispered.

The phone rang again.

Femmie’s grip tightened. “No.”

The ringing stopped. For three seconds the store held its breath. Then the phone rang a third time.

Odessa pulled free and picked it up.

“We’re closed,” she said.

The line breathed.

Not static. Breathing—slow, damp, and very close to the mouthpiece.

Then Roy Bibb said, “You shouldn’t have lied about the count.”

Odessa closed her eyes. Roy’s voice had always carried a rushed cheerfulness, as if every conversation were something he intended to escape before it became expensive. This voice had the same shape but none of the warmth.

“Where are you?” she asked.

Femmie shook her head violently.

“Under the hood,” Roy said.

The call ended.

Somewhere outside, a truck door opened.

Odessa saw it through the front windows: Roy’s old pickup in the back lot, parked beside the ice machine. Its headlights pointed toward the store and toward the desert at the same time. The driver’s door stood open. A figure sat behind the wheel, though the cab was black and empty-looking.

On the counter, the laminated card made a dry snapping sound.

Odessa looked down.

The ninth rule had changed.

The lettering was still hers to read, but the sentence beneath the number had lengthened in fresh black ink:

9. WHEN THE COUNTERMAN ASKS WHO IS KEEPING COUNT, GIVE THE TRUE NUMBER. IF YOU HAVE LIED, COUNT THE CUPS. THE LAST CUP BELONGS TO THE ONE WHO ANSWERS.

Below it, where there had been blank plastic, a tenth line appeared one letter at a time.

10. DO NOT LET ROY BIBB COME INSIDE.

The stockroom door opened.

Femmie made a small sound, not quite a gasp. She moved behind Odessa, placing herself between the clerk and the dark doorway despite the pie knife being useless in her hand.

A smell entered first: hot dust, gasoline, and the coppery scent of old coins.

Then Roy stepped out.

He wore the same blue work shirt he had worn on Odessa’s first morning, but the shirt was buttoned wrong, each button fastened through the hole beneath it. His face looked ordinary until he smiled. The smile continued a fraction too long, widening after his cheeks had stopped moving.

“Morning,” he said.

Odessa kept her eyes on his chest. “You’re not Roy.”

“Of course I am.”

“No. Roy leaves rooms before they become uncomfortable.”

The thing wearing him glanced at Femmie. “She trained you well.”

Femmie’s voice was almost inaudible. “Don’t answer questions.”

Roy reached for the steaming cup.

The cup slid away from him across the counter, stopping in front of Odessa. Its dark surface trembled. In it, reflected upside down, she saw another room: a toll booth beneath a starless sky, and a line of people waiting patiently to be counted.

Roy tapped the card.

“Who is keeping count?” he asked.

Odessa understood then. The answer was not nine. It was not ten. The true number was whoever had been counting since the first rule was written—and the thing in the cup wanted her to say its name.

She picked up the cup.

Behind her, Femmie whispered, “Dess, don’t.”

Odessa raised the coffee to her lips anyway. Something on the other side of the reflection leaned forward to hear her answer.