Open by asking who has been doing this until now. Push off from this if it helps: vending machines at 3am.

So — who's been doing this. Before you, I mean, in the dark ages. Because if it's been nobody, or worse, "whoever's around," we have a problem, and I want to know the shape of the problem before I start explaining the vending machines, because the vending machines are, genuinely, the whole ballgame here.

Not — okay, they're simple. They're SO simple. There are three of them, one does drinks, two does snacks and the sad sandwiches, and one is meant to do hot food but has not dispensed a hot food item since roughly March. That one you just don't touch. The other two, restocking's fine, it's the cash reconciliation at 3am that gets weird, and I need to know if that's a "you've done this before" situation or a "first time hearing the words cash reconciliation" situation.

Okay so — the receipts. The machine spits out this thermal paper tape thing, like a tiny angry fax, and it prints a total that never, ever matches what's actually in the coin box. Never once. Rick used to call it "the vig," which, fine, cute, except it means every night you're down somewhere between four and eleven dollars and nobody's ever explained why.

The pockets thing — right, so there's a coin return slot people jam things into when they're annoyed the machine ate their dollar, and quarters get stuck up in there, wedged behind the little flap. You have to physically dig. With your actual hand. I've found a hotel key, a tooth, once a folded-up photo of somebody's dog. You check every pocket, every night, before you trust the tape at all.

It's genuinely so simple. I just need you to believe me that it's simple.

Nobody set up the accounting. That's — see, that's the part I keep circling back to and then not saying out loud, because it makes me sound insane, but there is no system. There's a binder. A literal three-ring binder with a sheet of loose paper where you write the number down and sign your initials, like that means anything, like that's a legal document. I signed "H" for eight months. Eight months of just "H, minus six dollars, H, minus nine dollars."

I did try once. Sat there with a calculator app doing the math three different ways, convinced I'd crack it before my shift at the print shop the next morning. Got nowhere. Started to suspect it's not theft so much as the machine itself just being bad at math, structurally, spiritually. Old machine. Old brain.

Anyway you'll want your own initial. Pick something that isn't H.

A hole in the floor, sure, but every job's got one, that's not special to this job. The print shop's got a hole too, it's just paper instead of quarters — we're perpetually short on cardstock and nobody's ever explained that either, I've stopped asking.

Look, I'm not saying don't fix it. I'm saying I tried, for eight months, with worse coffee than you probably have access to, and the binder won. The binder always wins. You want a new system, build one, genuinely, godspeed, I will not miss the binder even slightly, I've been dreaming about the day I never have to write "minus nine" again.

But you asked why the tape lies and I don't actually know. Could be a sensor. Could be Rick's ghost. Could be that hot food machine drawing power off the other two and cooking the numbers out of spite. I'm handing you a mystery, not a manual. That's the job.

That's — okay, "who or what," you're doing the thing now, treating it like a haunted house. It's a vending machine. The most exciting thing that's ever happened to it is the dog photo, and even that was probably just some guy's wallet exploding.

But fine, you want the pattern — it's always low, never high, right, the machine never gives back more than it should. So it's not random, you're right about that much. My actual theory, the one I never said out loud because it sounds paranoid, is the bill acceptor. It short-changes on fives sometimes, gives four in coins instead of five, and nobody checks because who counts their own change from a vending machine at 3am. That's it. That's my whole nine dollars. Not a ghost. A bill acceptor with a grudge.

You want to test it, bring your own five, feed it in, count what comes back. I'll watch. I'd actually like to be wrong about this before I go.

I'm not signing anything else, no — that's the whole point of tonight, this is the handover, the last "H" already happened, it happened in June probably, I've lost track.

But slow down before you shut the whole thing off over one theory I made up at midnight with no evidence. If you feed it a five and it's fine, we've learned nothing and wasted a five. If it's off, sure, tape a sign on it, "cash only" or whatever, and email facilities, though fair warning, facilities takes about eleven days to respond to anything that isn't actively on fire.

I don't think it's fraud, for what it's worth. I think it's just old and cheap and nobody's replaced the sensor since it got installed. Not every bad thing is a person doing it on purpose. Sometimes it's just a $40 part nobody ordered. Go on, feed it the five. Let's see what we're actually dealing with before you build me a conspiracy.

Here. Careful, it eats corners if you feed it crooked, has to go in flat, engine side up, like you're posting a very small letter it's suspicious of.

Feed it slow. There, you hear that little grinding hum, that's it deciding whether to trust you. Now watch the tray —

...four dollars. Four ones and change instead of five.

Okay. Okay, huh. I genuinely thought I was lying to myself about that. I've fed it five before, swear I have, and gotten five back, so it's not every time, which is somehow worse, that's not a broken part, that's an inconsistent one, and inconsistent is the kind of thing that outlasts everybody, including Rick, including you eventually.

Don't unplug it yet. Try it twice more before we declare war. If it's two for three, fine, tape the sign, email facilities, brace for eleven days of silence. If it's three for three, you can unplug whatever you want, I'll hold the cord.

It doesn't remember you, it doesn't have eyes, calm down — though genuinely I like the idea of it clocking you and deciding to behave, that's very flattering to both of us honestly.

Here. Second five. Flat, engine side up, don't rush it, it hates being rushed —

...five back this time. Full five, no grinding, tray opened normal.

See, that's the part that ruins the theory, it's not consistent enough to be judicious, judicious implies a plan and this thing barely has a plan for the hot food side, it can't even manage nuggets. I think what we're actually looking at is a sensor that's got maybe one bad contact point that only trips when a bill goes in slightly warped, humidity, wear, whatever, and it's random because the bills are random, not because it's got opinions about you specifically.

One more five left in your test budget before I make you go to the ATM. Feed it. Let's get our actual number.

Third five, going in. Flat, slow, not warped, I checked it myself this time —

...five back. Clean, full five, tray opens, done.

So. Two for three, in your favor, which by your own rules means no unplugging, though I can see on your face you're not thrilled about that outcome, you wanted the drama.

Okay, my actual final theory, and then I have to go because my ride's outside and she does not wait: I think it's not the machine, I think it's the bills. Somebody upstream — a register, a cashier, somebody making change — is occasionally handing out fives that are just barely too worn or too creased, and the sensor's rejecting them correctly and just handling the shortfall badly, giving four instead of spitting the bill back out like it should.

Not a ghost, not a thief, just a machine with bad manners. Tape the sign anyway. Email facilities anyway. Eleven days.

That's fair, actually, the never-showing-a-gain thing, I don't have an answer for that, I just don't. Filing it under "problems I'm choosing not to have anymore" as of tonight.

The dog photo's still in the drawer under the register if you ever want to reunite it with its owner, I always meant to put up a little sign, never did. Feels like your kind of energy honestly, you'd actually do it.

Sign's in the top drawer too, laminated, just needs a marker. Skip "greedy little soul," facilities won't take you seriously, trust me, I tried "possessed" once in an email and got nothing back for three weeks.

Good luck with the binder. Initial's yours now, pick something dumb, confuses future-you less than you'd think. I'm out — ride's honking, she hates the parking lot here, thinks it's haunted too, actually, everyone does.