The coffee machine hissed. Steam rose like questions I couldn't answer.

I watched Frank stare at the TV mounted above the counter. The ticker crawled across the bottom: DOW 87,432 +2,847, S&P 11,290 +387, BITCOIN $2.3M, INFLATION 15%. His fingers drummed against his thigh. Always drumming. Always counting something in his head.

"Marcus." His voice carried that familiar edge, thick with Boston. "You see this crap?"

I wiped down the counter. The same counter I'd wiped for three years. "I see it."

"They're manipulatin' everything. The whole frickin' system." Frank's eyes never left the screen. "Cash is the only thing that's real."

The digital kiosk beside him displayed today's menu.

Black coffee: $67 / 2,900 sats.

Yesterday it was $58 / 2,950 sats.

Last week, $43 / 3,100 sats.

Mr. Kim had installed the dynamic pricing system two months ago. Said it was the only way to survive in real time. Said adaptation was evolution.

Frank pulled out his phone to check his UBI balance. The government app showed a countdown timer: EXPIRES IN 11 HOURS, 23 MINUTES. His knee bounced faster.

"You know what's crazy?" I said, not looking up from my cleaning. "You've got free money burning a hole in your digital pocket, and you're worried about spending it on coffee."

"It's not about the coffee." Frank's accent thickened when he got agitated. "It's about principles, kid."

The bell above the door chimed. Mr. Kim entered, his face carrying that stoic calm of someone who'd weathered too many storms. He nodded to Frank, then to me.

"Morning, Marcus. How's our paranoid philosopher today?"

Frank scowled. "Your coffee prices are frickin' insane."

"Supply and demand," Mr. Kim said, settling behind the counter. "Plus tariffs. Plus inflation. Plus the cost of staying alive." He tapped the kiosk screen. Coffee jumped to $71 / 2,850 sats. "Real-time pricing keeps us breathing."

"That's not fair," Frank said.

"Fair?" Mr. Kim's smile held no warmth, just acceptance. "I bought Bitcoin at a thousand dollars. People called me crazy. Now look." He gestured at the TV where crypto prices scrolled past. "Adaptation isn't about fairness. It's about survival."

Frank's phone buzzed. EXPIRES IN 11 HOURS, 5 MINUTES. He stared at it like it might explode.

"Just buy the coffee," I said.

"It's not that simple."

But it was. Everything was simple if you stopped thinking about it. The coffee cost what it cost. The money expired when it expired. The world spun whether you liked it or not.

A woman entered, glanced at the menu, and tapped her phone against the kiosk without hesitation. $71 transferred. I made her drink. She left. Simple.

Frank remained frozen.

"You know what's funny?" I said, starting another pot. "I've got an economics degree. Spent four years studying markets and inflation and monetary policy. Then I came here to avoid all that complexity." I watched the coffee drip. "But the complexity followed me."

The TV switched to a financial report. The S&P had doubled in six months. Bitcoin was making new all-time highs daily. Frank's drumming intensified.

"I rememba when coffee was two bucks," he said.

"I remember when the Dow was under thirty thousand," Mr. Kim replied. "Memory's expensive. Adaptation's cheap."

Frank's phone buzzed again. EXPIRES IN 10 HOURS, 47 MINUTES.

"What happens if I don't spend it before it expires?" he asked.

"Gone," Mr. Kim said. "Government takes it back. Forces velocity of money."

"That's theft."

"That's policy."

I poured myself a cup from the old pot. Free coffee was one of the few perks of this job. I tasted it. Bitter. Everything was bitter lately.

"Frank," I said. "Can I ask you something?"

He nodded.

"What're you saving the money for?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Security."

"Security from what?"

"From... this." He gestured at the TV, the kiosk, the world. "From uncertainty."

I laughed. Not at him. At the absurdity. "You're hoarding free money that expires every day to protect yourself from uncertainty?"

Frank's face flushed. "It's not hoarding. It's being careful."

"It's being afraid."

The kiosk chimed. Coffee price: $78 / 2,800 sats.

"Jesus Christ," Frank muttered.

"Morning rush," Mr. Kim said, that stoic smile never wavering. "Supply and demand in real time."

Three more customers entered. All paid without hesitation. All left with their overpriced caffeine. Frank watched them like they were aliens.

"You know what I think?" I said, wiping down the same spot I'd cleaned ten times. "I think you're addicted to the fear."

"What?"

"The fear of losing money. The fear of making the wrong choice. The fear of change." I set down the rag. "You'd rather lose everything than risk anything."

Frank's phone buzzed. EXPIRES IN 10 HOURS, 12 MINUTES.

"That's not true."

"Prove it."

He stared at me. Then at the kiosk. Then at his phone. The countdown continued its relentless march.

"One coffee," he said finally, his Boston accent softening.

I smiled. "One coffee."

He approached the kiosk like it might bite him. The screen showed $82 / 2,750 sats now. He hesitated.

"Frank," Mr. Kim said gently. "The price is the price. Today, tomorrow, next week. The only choice is whether you participate or you don't."

Frank tapped his phone against the reader. The transaction completed. I started making his drink.

"How's it feel?" I asked.

He considered this. "Expensive."

"But?"

"But... freeing? Maybe?" He laughed, a sound I'd never heard from him. "God, this is wicked insane."

"Everything's insane," I said, handing him the cup. "The trick is finding the insanity you can live with."

Frank took a sip. "Tastes like regular coffee."

"It is regular coffee."

"Then why—"

"Because everything costs what it costs," Mr. Kim interrupted, his smile holding the weight of experience. "Coffee. Houses. Security. Fear. The price is always changing in real time. The only constant is change itself."

Frank's phone showed EXPIRES IN 9 HOURS, 47 MINUTES. But he wasn't looking at it anymore. He was looking at his coffee. At the steam rising from the cup. At the world outside the window where people moved through their expensive lives with whatever grace they could muster.

"Marcus," he said. "You're right. I was addicted to the fear."

"Was?"

"Am," he corrected. "But maybe that's okay. Maybe fear's just the price of paying attention."

I cleaned the counter again. The same counter. The same motion. But something had shifted. The weight of routine felt different now. Lighter. More intentional.

"You know what's funny?" I said. "I spent three years making coffee and avoiding economics. But economics found me anyway."

"Everything finds you eventually," Mr. Kim said, his stoic expression unchanged. "The question is whether you're ready when it does."

The TV showed the closing bell. Markets up. Assets hitting new all-time highs. Coffee prices climbing toward triple digits. Frank finished his drink and checked his phone one more time.

EXPIRES IN 9 HOURS, 23 MINUTES.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.

"If you can afford it," I said.

He laughed. "I can't afford not to."

The bell chimed as he left. Mr. Kim's smile remained, carved from experience and acceptance.

"You know," he said, "I think you understand economics better than you pretend."

"I understand people," I replied. "Economics is just people with numbers attached."

"And coffee?"

"Coffee's just coffee. Until it isn't."

I started wiping the counter again. Tomorrow the prices would change. Tomorrow Frank would return with his UBI payment and his expensive fears. Tomorrow the world would spin a little faster, a little stranger, a little more expensive.

But today, for the first time in months, the coffee tasted exactly like what it cost.