His phone lay face down, and he was watching our table the way a man watches a rain gauge.

“Why does he watch you like that?” I asked.

Charles capped his pen and lined it up with the edge of the notebook.

“The third floor has four trash cans.

I empty them in the same order every day.

He’d like to know which bin took his paper before I tie off the bag.”

“His paper.”

“Shredded paper is still paper.” He took another bite.