There were other details, too. Small but telling. Shoes worn unevenly like he’d been walking longer than he should. Hair cut unevenly, clean but careless, as if someone had done it quickly without asking how he liked it.
a coat buttoned all the way up despite the warmth of the room. People came and went. Plates were cleared, checks were paid, and still Arthur kept glancing at the door, the clock on the wall, the windows facing the parking lot.
Finally, almost like he was testing the ground, Arthur said, “I’m not supposed to be out.” The man across from him set his cup down. Says who? Arthur looked at the table.
“My grandson.” He says, “It’s not safe. That I might get confused.” There was a pause long enough to feel heavy. “Do you get confused?” Arthur looked up, then met his eyes, and in that look was clarity, fear, and something close to desperation.
“No,” he said, “and nothing more.” Outside, a truck backfired, and Arthur flinched hard enough that his chair scraped the floor. He apologized for it quickly, automatically, like someone used to apologizing for existing.
PART 2:
He said he only had a little time. He said his grandson had an appointment and would be back soon. He said he’d caught a ride into town with someone who thought he was just visiting, someone who didn’t ask questions.
When he stood to leave, fumbling with his jacket, a small metal key slipped from his pocket and hit the floor. The leather vested man picked it up, intending to hand it back, but Arthur had already turned away, limping faster than seemed possible, fear pushing him out the door and into the daylight.
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