A cold mug of black tea sat beside his arm, and his index finger was tapping against his thumb in that familiar, rhythmic counting pattern.

His right hand was trembling so hard the ceramic mug rattled against its saucer.

He tried to draw his forearm back into the heavy sleeve of his winter coat, but I crossed the linoleum floor and sat down on the metal folding chair across from him.

I reached across the table and took his shaking hand in both of mine.

His skin was cold, but the involuntary spasms were strong and steady beneath his knuckles.