George.
The widower with the two coffees.
He was still alive.
He looked ancient now, probably well into his eighties, but his eyes were sharp.
“You forgot the money.”
Mason’s expression tightened.
“That isn’t tonight.”
George grinned.
“It’s absolutely tonight.”
Hannah groaned.
“Oh, no.”
I looked between them.
“What money?”
Nobody answered.
“What money?”
David suddenly became very interested in his shoes.
I pointed at him.
“You know about this too?”
“Only part.”
“David.”
“I swear.”
George slid off his stool.
“Someone get the folder.”
Mason said, “George.”
“Boy, I’ve been waiting eight years for this.”
“George.”
“I’m eighty-seven. I don’t have time for your schedule.”
The diner erupted in laughter.
Mason covered his face.
It was one of the rare gestures he made when embarrassed.
And I realized something incredible.
Everyone here knew him.
Not an idea of him.
Not “the autistic boy.”
