It was immediately clear that he wasn’t ok. An elderly man with thinning hair and a plain black coat approaches the counter, and as he reaches into his pockets to pull out a ragged leather wallet, it’s hard to ignore his hands. Withered and lined with veins, they shake constantly, violently, victims which could have only come from the innocuous looking casks he now placed on the counter, and likely many more before it. Its influence had spread throughout the man’s body; he looked exhausted, with unfocused eyes and a half resigned, half embarrassed expression. The blonde woman standing in line behind him noticed it too, flicking her eyes around him rapidly in an awkward confliction of curiosity and pity. It’s almost pointless wondering how he got to this point, what kind of trials his life took him through to set him on this path that stripped away his basic motor functions, to the point where he loses his ability to perform even our most simple actions. When you reach this point of no return, what else is there to do but hand him his change and smile politely as he walks towards the doors, which are surely in wait to beckon him back inside tomorrow.