Morning light filtered through the large front windows of Avalon, illuminating the neatly stocked shelves of potato chips, tuna packets, soda cans, and ramen cups. A battered dispenser offered "One free cup of water per customer," its faded lettering belying the significance it had taken on. This dispenser had become more than a refreshment tool; it was the heart of a humble mission—providing a small oasis to the neighborhood's struggling kids.
John Cruz stood behind the counter, the early hours finding him deep in his routine: preparing coffee, replenishing snacks, and greeting each face that passed through the door. With every nod and courteous "Good morning," he felt a sense of quiet purpose. Today, Avalon felt less like a business and more like a sanctuary.
From the back, Lorna floated forward, wiping a tabletop with care. Her half-aurora hair caught stray shafts of sunlight, flickering with green and violet hues. She paused at the counter, offering a gentle smile to a teenager tugging at the door shyly.
After all this time, the shop had become a gathering place for local teens. Some arrived before the morning bell—heading to school, work, or nothing at all. John offered each a cup of water, exchanged their names, and tucked little paper notes with trivia or motivational phrases into their snack bags: "Water today brings strength tomorrow." Each note was a bridge between stranger and friend.
By the end of the first week, Avalon had welcomed a revolving cast of youth: schoolgoers seeking respite before class; an older kid clutching a faltering backpack, hoping for a ramen cup to get him through his second shift. Each left with something free—water, snacks, and a moment of recognition—as though the world said, "You matter."
Midday, the shop hummed with a warmth that couldn't be bought. John watched from behind the counter as one teen received tea from a fetching machine, a small smile breaking across his face. Lorna helped another measure out noodles. Teen chatter became a soft hum, and hope thrummed beneath it.
On a Tuesday, John brought out his secret addition: a refurbished Street Fighter II arcade cabinet. He rested it where it would be near yet out of the main aisle—behind the counter but visible enough for all to see. With deft fingers, he plugged it in, switched it on, and rearranged a few shelves for a tiny platform. Finally, he affixed a modest sign:
sql
Copy code
FREE PLAY Limit 5 MINUTES per Game SHARE & RESPECT One Round = One Cup
Within minutes, teens noticed. Word of mouth moved fast. By afternoon, a small queue formed. The first player dropped in a match—Ryu against Guile—wrapping his fingers around the joystick with rapture. Lorna handled the rotation list on a scrap piece of paper she kept in her pocket, calling names politely. When one player's five minutes were up, the next stepped in, applause followed, and another took their turn. Nobody argued; they'd learned respect in each player's presence.
John watched it unfold with a swelling confidence. He traced the chipped joystick: memories of his own youth, of names like Guile, Ryu, Chun-Li, Pai-Chun running through his mind. He reminded himself Avalon was more than a store—it was a vessel of community, a magnet that drew the lost and hopeful.
The next morning, a commotion shattered the rhythm. The bell rang violently as a black teenager, arms flailing, stumbled inside panting. His hoodie was soaked with sweat, eyes darting from shelf to counter. Behind him was the echo of footsteps and shouted threats:
"Hey, Brown! Turn around and pay up!"
The pursuers—three tough-looking teens—pushed through the door brandishing fists and scowls. They looked fourteen or fifteen, worn uniforms of depleted youth.
John sprang to action. No hesitation. The battles of the basement, the ninjas—they trained him to move with purpose. He planted himself in front of the pursuers and the boy they chased, chest open, voice firm:
"This is a store. Not a trap. You. Get out."
The trio skidded to a stop, exchanging looks of confusion and defiance. One swallowed before sneering, "We're collecting protection money."
John's jaw tightened. He kept speaking, calm:
"We don't collect money here. We don't collect pain. Leave. Now."
They hesitated. The teens inside, hushed beforehand, sprang forward: some nudged the pursuers; others began with stern stares. Humiliation rippled through them.
Finally, one of the three broke. He spat at John but stumbled out the door, the other two following in silent compliance. Their footsteps faded and the bell clicked shut.
The boy behind John slumped to the floor, drenched and shaking. John knelt beside him. Lorna appeared with a cup of water before the boy even realized what he wanted.
He drank deeply, barely seeing John and Lorna helping him gather his resolve.
"I'm… I'm Hobbie Brown," he stammered. "My name."
John offered a hand and guided him to a stool. "You're safe here, Hobbie. What do they want from you?"
He wiped his face, a sleeve passing over dirt-streaked cheeks. "They... they're in my neighborhood. They said I owed them so much—snacks, my phone... whatever money I made window cleaning."
Lorna sat gently across from him. "Window cleaning?"
"Yes. After school for Mr. Kim. I'm trying..." Voice broke.
John leaned forward, gaze softening. "Would you like to help us here? We have a job for you—shelving, cleaning, even helping manage the arcade. You can earn a place—and we'll help you keep your work elsewhere safe."
Hobbie stood and nodded. "I—I'd like that."
John called out to Lorna, "Can you find the staff badge?"
She nodded and hustled to the back, returning with a blank laminated tag. John handed it to Hobbie and patted his shoulder.
"You're in. Work starts this week. Welcome to Avalon."
As if sensing the shift, Bob Diamond entered the store then. His grin flickered, but it softened the mood. He watched Hobbie settle in behind the counter, signing his name with reverence.
"He looks a lot like somebody I used to practice with," Bob murmured to John. His voice quivered—not with recognition, but with the saddening doubt of age.
John swiveled on his stool. "Did you train someone like him?"
Bob shook his head, exhaling. "Maybe. Or maybe I've listed too many memories. Getting old. Mixing faces."
John nodded. "Maybe I feel the same. But Hobbie's here now."
Bob looked at the boy and smiled. "Then that works."
The rest of the day unfolded in a surreal but gentle hum. Teens drifted in and out, browsing with discretionary kindness, leaving contributions like canned soup or soft drinks. Hobbie worked steadily, learning to refill the water cooler, rearrange ramen piles, clean the floor. He listened mumbles of guidance when he stalled—a book out of line, wet spot near the freezer. He learned quickly, inspired by the kindness and the chance to belong.
By evening, after disposal and restock, Hobbie lingered by the arcade cabinet. He dropped in a quarter and played a round of Street Fighter. With abolutely free, respectful rules in place, even his victory didn't demean him. John and Lorna watched. They exchanged a glance: this was part of something bigger.
Later, in the Den, John closed the ledger for the day. The names of teen regulars floated beneath the ledger pages: Marvin, Maria, Faith, Jamar, now including Hobbie. Costs and expenses balanced—always modest—but balanced mattered.
Lorna stood by the light of the table lamp, her notebook open with teenage schedules and tournament assignments scribbled behind her. She smiled, tucking her hair out of her eyes.
"There are still kids on the street. Some want arcade time. Some want windows cleaned. Some might want more."
John exhaled. "We're getting there."
A soft knock. Bob appeared in the doorway, holding a small envelope. "You got a minute?"
With Hobbie having left for the evening, John gestured him in. Bob handed over the envelope, thick enough to hold more than paper.
"Meet a friend of mine. Doesn't wear gloves. Doesn't ask for medals. He knows how to help kids like Hobbie stay runner instead of chased. He can help keep him safe."
John eyed the envelope. "Is he local?"
Bob nodded. "West side. Quiet one. Doesn't want fuss."
John paused. "Okay. I'll set it up."
Bob smiled. "That's all I wanted to say. And…" He glanced behind him. "Everything's still ticking here."
John looked toward the Den's lamp, where the White Tiger Gloves rested near family photos and Lorna's notebook. "It is."
Bob's face saddened a moment before steadying. "Good."
Lights dimming, the three stood in soft silence. Avalon had become more than a shop—it was a harbor. Rent and taxes were real, but so was water for those without; ramen for those who skipped lunch; refuge for Hobbie.
Bob offered a small, amused laugh. "Getting old's not so bad. You keep passing the love to kids." He patted John's shoulder. "Just don't start mixing faces."
John grinned. "I've got you to keep me honest."
Lorna nodded. "And Hobbie's got a home here."
They locked the door. The night closed in, but Avalon remained luminous—an improbable beacon of steady hope.