“You can sit here if you like, ma’am,” he offered.

“I’m forty-seven,” I said, “not ninety.”

His mouth twitched, fighting a smile.

“I wasn’t implying anything about your age.”

“You absolutely were.”

And there it was — a real smile, surprised out of him, brief and genuine and utterly transforming, the smile of the boy underneath the file.

We fell into talking about the mystery novel in his hands, which led to talking about other books, which led somehow to everything else, and one conversation turned into another so naturally that when I finally looked up, nearly an hour had gone by.

He was careful, I could see that.