“My last name is Clark,” Mason said.
The stranger looked up.
“I know.”
“People have last names,” Victor said loudly.
“It doesn’t make them important.”
Mason ignored him and approached the table.
“My father used to call me the Clark boy when I was little.”
The old man’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth.
“What was your father’s first name?”
“Elliot,” Mason said.
The stranger breathed out through his nose.
“That is the name I hoped you would say.”
Mason’s father had died when Mason was fourteen, leaving behind a dented tackle box, a collection of work boots, and stories that became less believable each year.
Elliot Clark had worked maintenance at a warehouse near the river before an injury ended his job.
After that he had worked whatever shifts he could find, always insisting that one day someone would make things right.
Mason had learned not to ask who that someone was.
Victor stepped closer.
“Whatever this little performance is, you need to take it outside.”
The old man laid his spoon down.
“You’re welcome to explain that to the people coming here.”
“Nobody is coming,” Victor said.
“Then you won’t mind if I finish dinner.”
Mason remained beside the booth.
“How did you know my father?”
“I owed him an apology,” the man replied.
“An apology for what?”
“For believing the wrong brother.”
Mason had never heard his father mention a brother.
The old man saw the confusion and did not try to fill it with convenient explanations.
“You deserve documents, not another stranger’s story,” he said.
“Give me a little time.”
A couple at the nearest table pretended to study their desserts.
Mason felt suddenly exposed, as if an old family argument had been lifted into the bright restaurant for everyone to inspect.
He had come to work expecting to carry plates, not to have his father’s name spoken by a man nobody recognized.
Victor walked toward the office and made a call with his back turned.
When he returned, the first thing he asked was whether the old man had mentioned a warehouse.
The stranger looked directly at him.
“Why would that concern you, Mr.
Shaw?”
Chapter 3: A Woman Carrying a Blue Folder
The woman arrived twenty-three minutes later in a gray sedan with one damaged headlight.
She was perhaps sixty, wore snow boots beneath a formal coat, and carried a blue accordion folder with a broken clasp.
She did not look like a person summoned to impress anyone.
