"Thank you," the man said. His voice was deep and a little rough, with an accent that wasn't from Polish Hill—more like the men on the news. "Thank you. I—it's the watch I'd have minded. The cane I can replace." He opened his hand again and ran his thumb around the edge of the case, feeling it, and then pressed the catch so it popped open and touched the bare face with one fingertip, very lightly, and Cal understood that that was how he told time. By feel. He snapped it shut again and put it inside his coat. "Is it scratched?"
"I don't think so. It opened. But the flower's okay."
The man went still for a second. "You looked."
"It opened," Cal said again. "I didn't mean to."
"No. That's all right." The man seemed to come back to himself. He turned his face toward the noise of the passage. "They've moved everything around. I used to know this place. I used to know where everything was. Now there are walls where there didn't use to be walls."
"They're fixing it," Cal said. "There's a sign. It says gates five through eight are this way. Through that skinny part."
"Five through eight." The man's mouth did something—not a smile exactly. "Could you—I'm sorry. Could you tell me if there's still a bench by Gate Seven? A long wooden one, against the wall, under the clock. There used to be."
"I don't know. I can look."
"Would you?" The man hesitated. Cal could see him not wanting to ask the next thing. "Would you take me? I don't—it's my arm, you see, I'd need to hold your arm. Just above the elbow. You don't have to do anything. Just walk normal. I'll follow."
Cal looked back at his box, sitting alone in the middle of the concourse with people walking around it. Then he looked at the man.
"I have to get my box," he said. "It's my aunt's. Hang on."
He went and got it, and came back, and stood there holding it against his chest with both arms. "I can't—if I'm carrying this, I don't have an elbow."
"Ah." The man thought. "Is there anything on your back? You sound like you have something on your back."
"My backpack."