He adjusted his glasses again, his eyes shifting toward the window.

“The circumstances were different then,” he said.

The bill for our two black coffees came to six dollars and fifty cents.

Arthur stood at the counter, reaching into his leather wallet for a twenty-dollar bill.

The young barista with a green apron waited, her fingers hovering over the touch screen of the register.

“My daughter, Mara Whitmore, works over at the hospital,” Arthur said, his voice carrying a sudden, performative warmth.

“She is the surgical intake coordinator.”