A chair gouged the stone floor and a man dashed after the fisherman. Someone silenced the music and the barista stood frozen, stirring. A tide of voices floated to the back of the cafe as gossip turned to speculation. The man in dripping waders had gulped a single word and disappeared. Now a woman in running gear rushed after them through the parking lot and down the wooden steps.

The man in the corner glanced up from the notebook in his lap, seeking the source of distraction. He found headphones and drowned cafe chaos in waves of cello and French horn. Meted in three, the piece led him back to the numbers and he scratched paper with precision strokes, ignoring the peripheral human churn. By threes and fives, customers abandoned drinks and schooled outside or to the windows for an elevated view of the spilling drama.

He counted thirteen inside and the crowd outside quickly multiplied. He factored in the shop across the parking lot, with an equally advantageous view. As the number of spectators increased, he knew the victim’s chances of survival statistically decreased. Sirens permeated the shallow membrane and he raised the volume. A three-minute response was average. Assuming the man had obtained the requested rope, the rescue may have begun in time.

He watched as the first emergency vehicle backed into the parking lot at the top of the steps. A wake of hats and umbrellas surged the walls of the two shops, flowing around parked cars. Predictably, phones and cameras emerged. He hummed the waltz. A woman turned from the window and stared at him, as if he were the tragedy. She looked like she might speak. A man pulled her arm and brought his phone to her face. She squinted, trying to make sense of the tiny image, shaking her head in confusion.

He returned to the numbers. There was nothing he could do, anyway. It was too late. He wondered the difference between those who rushed blindly after the fisherman, and those who chose the view. He added a few strokes to the equation, and paused with eyes closed as the music climaxed. They would each take ownership of this, personalize it, hijack it and spread it through friends, family and strangers. By the time the story garnished the local news, hundreds, maybe thousands would call it their own. Behind eyelids, he imagined an ocean of vibrating lips, faces without ears.

He had no compulsion to be counted in this tragedy of infinite proportion. He remained immersed in the music. Occasional glances toward the window revealed an event for which all senses were not required. Spectators turned away as lights flashed again. Perhaps it had been a child. The sea of umbrellas ebbed as the vehicle moved slowly out of the lot. It was over, then. Oblivious now to the thinning school of onlookers, he concentrated on the equation that sustained him. He worked through the late afternoon until the final shift whistle sounded at the mill across the river. His mind surfaced and he rolled out the door and into the waiting van.

The report was due in three hours. It was the same each time. For six years he had neglected it until the final hours, possibly with hope he would be gone before it was due again. He crammed his gear into a bag and left the office, driving in search of an anonymous coffee shop with a view of the future. Wandering consumed another hour and he exited the highway into Smalltown Anyplace, resigned to get it over with, or just copy the report from last year. It was not like anything had changed. Cruising the main street, he spied a neon wi-fi sign and pulled in.

The café was dim, despite the bank of windows overlooking the river. He ordered something tall and black and absently searched for a table. Getting comfortable was not an option, so he committed to getting caffeinated. He slid the cup aside and littered the table with the trappings of modern convenience.

Reading the report from last year, he confirmed nothing had changed. He considered options while checking email and scrolling through text messages on his phone. He opened a browser, seeking distraction, and noticed the waning battery life. Eyes sought a power outlet. The only one visible was on the far side of the room, near the fireplace and a seat that was already taken. There were no other chairs within range.

He strayed from the distractions and stared at the document again, performing a global search and replace on some of his frequently used adjectives. Maybe they wouldn’t notice it was the same file he submitted last year. He looked toward the seat by the fireplace. The girl in the chair was reading a book, not even using the outlet. His phone vibrated. The ex. More money. Ignore. Back to email. A customer needed a quote by the end of the day. There were a few messages from the dating service he had unsuccessfully enrolled in last year, yet was too ashamed to cancel.

He saw the battery indicator again and looked toward the outlet. She was still there, fingers twirling curls, sandal dangling from bouncing toes. He returned to the annual review. He tried to think of a significant project that defined his year. Nothing. Justifying his existence to his employer always made him question his existence on this planet. He looked away from the screen and gulped cooling coffee. Her mouth tilted as if she had just discovered a secret. Sandals dropped on the stone floor and bare legs tucked under her draping skirt.

The report was due in less than an hour. He estimated twenty minutes of battery life. He cut out a paragraph and pasted it higher in the report. Pleased with the result, he did the same with a few more. Sunlight reflecting off the river crawled across the café. The young woman pulled her hair away from her face and light danced through curls and across her exposed neck. Lashes fluttered. She lifted the book and opened her eyes.

His phone buzzed. A client. Ignore. He rubbed at his temples and took another mouthful of his cold coffee. He hadn’t seen her take a single sip of hers. Why was she in a coffee shop, not drinking coffee and sitting in the only seat near a power outlet? He glared at the document and changed the dates and the name of his supervisor, the only two things that were different each year. He sent email replies as his battery indicator dipped into the red zone. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried the breathing exercises he had learned in group therapy.

When he opened them, he was surprised to see the woman walking directly toward him. She brushed by, skirts swirling around tattooed ankles. Honey. He expected she would smell more like citrus. Her eyes were light, and she was not as young as she had seemed, curled up in the armchair. He seized the opportunity.

Sweeping gear back into the bag, he leaped up and dashed for the chair near the outlet. He rifled for the power cord, plugging in the computer and spreading chaos on the coffee table. Her mug was still there, seemingly untouched, but with a clear outline of pink lipstick along the rim. Tea. He was wrong again. He opened the laptop and stared at the screen. The sun shone on the monitor, his work obscured. He sighed and flopped back in the chair, rubbing his neck. Eyes searched the room again, and he noticed another outlet on the wall, directly under the table he had just vacated.

Metal scraped stone, sweeping back rays of autumn afternoon. Customers posed on chairs and couches, faces bathed in blue light and restrained emotion. He shuffled forward in the line, squinting at the neon hieroglyphics on the menu board. The young woman in front of him recited her order, and though he recognized the words, they held no meaning. He was about to order his first cup of coffee.

He reached the counter and pocketed the key, fingering the impression on his palm as he asked simply for a medium. He pulled virgin plastic from his back pocket and traded the barista for a steaming ceramic mug. A mug. He had hoped for a paper cup and a final moment alone by the river. He glanced down at the creeping beams of light.

Another patron was deftly juggling condiments on a counter. He followed and observed the well-rehearsed ritual, making mental notes as he passed the hot mug back and forth between his hands. He copied the dance and watched as the liquid swirled from black through shades of brown, finally settling on the familiar beige of his memories.

He surveyed the shop, suddenly intent on finding the ideal seat for starting a new life. Remains of sunlight stroked a table with high-back wooden chairs and in one corner a booth sat empty next to a cluttered bookshelf. A couple tangled on an overstuffed loveseat. He chose an armchair near the fireplace on the shadowy side of the café and set the drink on a table. The key gouged his thigh as he sat down, and he fished it out and dropped it into a coat pocket.

He admitted to himself that there was no such thing as starting over. There was no scratch, no zero. He was starting from thirty. For fourteen months he had ignored the outside world and denied the existence of possibility. He never intended to disconnect so completely, but once he had, he found it easy to withdraw from everything. In the end, the events that led to his seclusion were repeated, forcing him to resurface.

He was starting from thirty and then some. Each fiber held secrets of generations, pleasure and pain. He leaned into the steam and closed his eyes, willing the newness into every cell. He briefly wondered if this breath would become part of another being, if he would ever have that chance again. His hand dipped into his coat pocket, pushing aside the key and carefully removing the small leather notebook. He opened his eyes, trembling as he turned to the page with the frayed ribbon. His left thumb brushed the smeared blue ink of final words, and his right, the stark white of zero.