Matty was sitting by the metal handrail.

His round plastic wire-rimmed glasses were pushed up tight on his nose, and his chin was tucked down into his collar.

His hands were folded in his lap, completely still.

He didn’t look up when the boy next to him leaned over to whisper in his ear.

I kept my shoulders square and didn’t change my pace.

My leather boots made a soft, dry scraping noise on the glossy wooden floor as Sandbridge sand trickled out of the deep rubber treads.

Wyler held the black microphone level with his chin and tapped the face of his gold watch twice with his forefinger.