By Tuesday morning, Samuel decided the best way to break his streak of bad luck was to get out of the house entirely.
"Fresh air, coffee made by someone else… maybe that'll turn things around," he muttered as he locked the door behind him.
The little café on the corner of Brier and Main was one of his favorite spots to write. It had warm light, the kind of mismatched chairs that felt like they'd been gathered from a dozen different yard sales, and a steady low hum of conversation that made for perfect background noise.
He brought The Ashen Rider draft, a small notebook for side ideas, and his old laptop.
The bell above the café door chimed as he stepped in.
"Morning, Sam," called the barista a cheerful young woman named Claire, whose smile was almost as good as the coffee.
"Morning, Claire," he said, settling at his usual corner table by the window.
He ordered his usual a large black coffee, extra hot.
When Claire set it down, Samuel cracked open the laptop, ready to write.
He eased himself back into the scene.
The marshal was in the saloon now, boots on the railing, staring down the stranger. The man's hand twitched toward his holster, just enough to make the marshal's thumb rest heavier on the hammer
A shadow moved across the table. Samuel looked up to see a tall man in a wide-brimmed hat bumping past his seat, muttering a quick apology.
The man's elbow grazed Samuel's coffee cup, sending it tipping
Samuel lunged and caught it just in time, but the jolt sent a brown splash over the laptop's trackpad.
"Ah, come on…" he groaned, fishing for a napkin.
Claire saw him and hurried over with a rag. "Sorry about that. He's in here all the time, never looks where he's going."
Samuel chuckled faintly. "Guess it's just my week for this kind of thing."
He cleaned it up and kept going.
The marshal's finger was curling on the trigger now. The stranger's lip curled.
From the corner of the café, someone dropped a tray of dishes. The crash jolted Samuel so hard he smacked the backspace key and deleted half a sentence without meaning to.
"Lord," he muttered under his breath, "could I just get one quiet hour?"
By noon, the coffee shop had filled up, the air thick with the scent of espresso and warm pastries. Samuel ordered a sandwich and tried to push through.
But halfway through his lunch, the café's Wi-Fi dropped out. He wasn't even online for research, but the disconnection icon still glared at him like a personal insult.
Claire passed by and said, "Router's been acting weird all morning. Sorry about that."
Samuel waved it off. "Figures."
When he finally packed up to leave, he'd gotten maybe half a page done most of it edits to replace things he'd lost from interruptions.
Out on the street, the sky was overcast. A drop of rain hit his forehead. Then another. Then the sky opened.
He stood under the awning, watching the downpour, and shook his head.
"Alright, God… whatever lesson You're teaching here… I'm listening. Just… maybe use a little less coffee and rain next time?"
He smiled to himself, adjusted his bag, and started the walk home.