This was different.
It was the fear of a child who loved someone and dreaded disappointing him.
“Papa,” he whispered.
The man’s expression changed.
Only for a second.
The hard lines of his face softened around the eyes, and beneath the black coat, the perfect suit, and the controlled stillness, I saw something raw and human break through.
He had been afraid.
Terrified, maybe.
He crossed the diner in three long strides. The two men behind him stayed by the door, rain dripping from their coats onto the tile, eyes scanning the windows, the booths, Ray behind the counter, me.
Misha slid out of the booth and stood there with his little paper bag clutched to his chest.
