“Garage sale. You owe me six bucks.”

My client stared at me, eyes bugged out like a goldfish. Every feature on her face was gaunt with stress—she was the human embodiment of that one Edvard Munch painting. “And you’re sure it’s the same one” She pressed, her goldfish eyes boring into the back of my head. “He won’t be able to tell the difference?”

“Same model number and everything. I even scuffed up the bottom.”

Goldfish Lady peaked in the bag again and pulled out a vintage alarm clock, turning it over to inspect my scuffs. Her hands were just as gaunt as her face. It crossed my mind to mention that the stress of this whole ordeal maybe wasn’t worth the marriage she must be trying to save, but I’m not paid to give advice. I’m paid to solve problems—rich people problems—and then keep my mouth shut. I don’t know why Goldfish Lady needed a replacement for her husband’s heirloom clock so damn desperately, but she had eight grand to spend and I had Spring Break, so here we were.

She seemed to be satisfied with the clock, and her mouth twitched as she shoved it back in the bag. She passed me an envelope from her purse. “Your compensation.”

I stuck a finger in the envelope to break the seal. All hundreds. “You still owe me six bucks.”

For a second, I genuinely thought an eye was going to pop out of her skull. “I don’t carry small bills.”

I grinned at her. “Large bills are fine.”

Here’s the thing about solving rich people problems: if they need me to do the problem-solving, it’s because I’m the only option left. And I may have barely scraped a C- in ECON 100, but I know that if there’s only one place to buy a solution, nobody gets to complain about the prices.

Her whole face dripping into a scowl, Goldfish Lady yanked another hundred from her wallet and slapped it down on the table before storming out of the coffee shop.