The man pulled his yellow hood back.

He had deep lines around his eyes and a thick gray beard.

He was seventy years old, but his back was straight even as he leaned on the heavy tools.

“I know who you are,” he said.

His voice was barely above a whisper, rough and dry like old leaves scraping across pavement.

“How do you know my name?”

“You have his eyes,” the man said.

“And his jawline.