We ordered dinner.

Austin insisted on paying with a battered debit card instead of the platinum cards he used to flaunt.

After the plates were cleared, a long silence settled over the table.

He reached into his jacket, his hands trembling, and slid a small, worn velvet box across the white tablecloth toward me.

“Austin, what is this?”

“I saw it in a pawnshop window downtown,” he said, his voice cracking.