"Which end is she on?"
"The left end. Gate Six end."
"Take me to the other end. The Seven end. Please."
Cal took him there. He put the box down and the man let go of his strap and reached out with the cane and found the edge of the bench and then reached out with his hand and touched the wood. He ran his glove along the top of the seat back. Then he turned and sat down, carefully, at the very end against the iron armrest, and put his cane between his knees and both his hands on top of it, and sat there.
He didn't say anything for a while. Cal didn't know if he should go. Out the big windows a Cleveland bus backed out of its bay, beeping, and the air brakes let go with a long sigh.
"Is the clock still there?" the man said. "Over me?"
"Yeah."
"What time does it say?"
Cal looked. "Twelve-forty."
"It was always five minutes fast." The man's mouth moved again, the almost-smile. "Is the floor still green? Little green squares, and every so often a black one?"
Cal looked down. "Yeah. It's kind of dirty, but yeah."
"Hm." The man tilted his head back against the wall. "I sat right here for ten hours once. On this end. A long time ago. I knew every one of those squares." He paused. "I'm sorry. I'm keeping you. You've been very kind. You've got your box to get home."
"It's okay."
"Your mother'll be wondering."