A third game moved in. The tellers approve.

Three days ago we told you this building keeps two video games. The building heard us and apparently took it as a challenge. There is a third window open now.

This one puts you behind the counter. Four teller windows, one espresso machine, and the morning line forming the way it has since 1855: politely, then all at once. You pull shots and send them sliding down the counter. What comes back, you catch. Anyone who reaches the machine will make their own latte, and we cannot have that.

You will meet the regulars. The flannel crowd, patient as fence posts. The cyclists off the trail, less so. Antique weekend does something to a person's sense of urgency. And the less said about the gentleman in the tall hat, the better. He has been in this building longer than the coffee has.

As for where it lives, the rules have not changed: we will not say. We will only say it is downstream of the second game, and that every float ends the same way, with somebody wading out of the creek wondering who is buying. Start there, and read the fine print. Old banks put the good stuff in the fine print.

Best played while your actual coffee goes cold in solidarity with the pixel ones. High scores may be disputed at the counter. The tellers are watching, and they are rooting for you.

The 1855 crew

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