I arrived early and chose a table near the back.
Logan came in twelve minutes late.
He looked older than he had three weeks earlier.
His shirt was wrinkled.
His hair needed cutting.
Dark circles sat beneath his eyes.
He held himself like a man carrying something fragile.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hello.”
He sat across from me.
For a few moments, neither of us touched the menus.
“I didn’t know where to find you,” he said.
“That was intentional.”
“I called your old bank.”
“I know.”
“They wouldn’t give me your address.”
“They shouldn’t have.”
“I called Aunt Miriam.”
“She didn’t know.”
“She thought you might be staying with someone.”
“I’m not.”
He nodded, looking down at the table.
“I was worried.”
“I believe you.”
His eyes lifted.
“That’s all?”
“What else should I say?”
“That you were worried about us too.”
“I was.”
“Are you?”
