Melody wiped down a sticky table and froze. A shiny new For Sale sign leaned against the wall by the door. Her pink hair swung as she turned away, jaw tight. Six weeks. She needed a number, and she needed it tonight. She slipped behind the bar and pulled out her flowered notebook. Inside were tip totals, rough guesses, and a blank line where the asking price should go. Without that number, every late shift was a shot in the dark. The owner sat at his small pink table in the corner, papers spread wide. Melody poured him a fresh drink and set it down. "What's he offering you?" she asked. He hesitated, then slid one page toward her. She read the figure twice. She walked back to the bar, hands steady, stomach not. She wrote the number down and underlined it. The target was real now. So was the gap.