"I... I thought it was automatic," she stammered. "The app—"

He turned and walked back to his car. He didn't take the pizzas. He didn't scream. He just got in, started the engine, and let the freezing rain wash over the windshield.

He sat in his driver's seat, the heater rattling, and felt something cold settle in his chest. Not just the temperature. He had rent due in three days. His brake pads were screaming. And this woman, with her farmhouse and her cashmere and her chaos, had just thanked him for being a "lifesaver" while giving him nothing.

"No," Liam said, his voice flat. "I didn't. You did."

She looked trapped. The entertainment of her cozy Friday night—the wine, the Netflix, the takeout—had just collided with the real economy. She fumbled for her purse. "I'm so sorry. Here—" She pulled out two crumpled dollar bills and a handful of quarters.

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