“He asked whether there was any food we were going to throw away.”
The waiter glared at her.
She continued anyway.
“I told him I could buy him a meal.
I placed the order.
When I brought it over, he”—she pointed toward the waiter—“knocked the plate out of my hands.”
The owner looked at the shards.
The poor man said quietly, “I didn’t want trouble.”
The waiter folded his arms.
“We can’t let people come in expecting handouts.”
The owner turned his head slowly.
“Handouts?”
The waiter seemed not to hear the danger in his voice.
“I was protecting the business.”
The owner stared at him for a long moment.
Then he said, “You dragged a hungry man across my café.”
“He couldn’t pay.”
“She said she would pay.”
The waiter faltered.
The waitress said nothing.
The owner’s eyes dropped again to the marks on the stranger’s arm.
“Did he threaten anyone?”
“No.”
“Steal anything?”
“No, but—”
“Damage anything?”
The waiter glanced at the broken plate.
Nobody needed to explain who had caused that.
The owner straightened.
“Go to my office.”
The waiter blinked.
“Sir?”
“Now.”
The sharpness of the command finally returned.
The waiter went pale and walked toward the back hallway.
The owner turned to the waitress.
“Please bring him another meal.”
The poor man immediately shook his head.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
The owner’s answer was quiet.
“I want to.”
The waitress nodded and hurried toward the kitchen.
The owner pulled out the chair that had been scraped across the floor.
“Sit.”
His brother hesitated.
The owner’s voice softened.
“Please.”
The man sat.
The owner sat across from him.
For the first time since entering the café, he seemed unaware that anyone else existed.
“I thought you were dead,” he said.
The words escaped before he could control them.
The poor man stared at the table.
“I thought you forgot me.”
The owner recoiled slightly.
