It’s only me over here.”

Charles Wilson was sitting by the window in his gray work shirt.

His cart was parked behind him, and a bologna sandwich on white bread lay on wax paper in front of him.

He had a blue thermos next to the sandwich and a folded napkin beneath the cup.

His name was stitched above the pocket.

Derek let out a laugh, short and sharp.

“Don’t do that,” he said.