Plates rattled at the kitchen pass, and the coffee machines hissed.

Mark sat perfectly straight in the red vinyl booth.

He wore a tailored navy suit and a crisp white shirt.

The waitress brought our food.

Mark had ordered the twenty-four-dollar ribeye steak sandwich and a tall iced tea.

I looked at my plain turkey club and glass of tap water.

I needed to talk to him about the Oakridge bank branch, and I knew I had to start with something small.

“Listen here,” I said.