Rex let his head fall back against the leather seat, staring at the car ceiling like it had answers. "A barista. Out of everything in the world, you throw me back behind a counter. Do you think this is funny?"
[Ding. System does not think. But if it did, yes.]
He snorted, a short bitter laugh. "Of course. Figures. You know, I've done worse. Way worse. Don't think I'm soft. In my past life, I scrubbed toilets until the smell stuck in my hair for days. I washed dishes for fourteen hours straight, hands raw, skin peeling, fingers pruned until I thought they'd never smooth out again. I hauled crates, mopped greasy restaurant floors, even worked overnight shifts loading trucks until my back nearly gave out."
The memories flickered through him. Jobs where pay barely covered meals, bosses who barked like drill sergeants, customers who treated him like furniture. "Compared to that, making lattes for some senior citizens is nothing. I don't even know if they are gonna drink lattes."
