Across the center aisle, two elderly women in blue vinyl chairs shifted in their seats, watching us closely over the tops of their reading glasses.

A man with a bruised collarbone stopped pacing near the registration counter and turned his head to watch the scene unfolding by row three.

Ethan stared down at his shoes, his knuckles white as he squeezed the sleeves of his wool coat.

“Ethan,” Sylvia said, her sharp words cutting quickly into the room.

“Think about your position at work.”

“Alan Vance won’t accept a missed presentation at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” she went on, her thumb repeatedly adjusting the heavy leather strap of her handbag on her shoulder.

“You know how he operates.”