A half-empty cup of black coffee sat near his right hand.

He was staring out the dark window at the parking lot.

I slid into the vinyl seat across from him.

He looked pale and exhausted.

“Did you bring the rest of the offshore routing numbers?” I asked.

Daniel pushed his glasses up his nose.

He did not touch the manila envelope.

He looked over his shoulder at the swinging kitchen doors, then back at me.