"She's at work till four."
"Still." The man reached into his overcoat and Cal thought, here it comes, he's going to give me money. He felt his face get hot again, the same hot as with Travis at the bike rack, and he didn't know why. But the man only took out a folded white handkerchief and touched it to his nose and put it away again. "At least let me know who to thank. What's your name?"
"Cal."
"Cal." The man nodded. "Short for something? Calvin?"
"No. Calloway."
He said it the way he always said it, a little apologetic, the way you'd say it to a substitute teacher, already bracing for the pause.
But there was no pause. There was nothing. The man's hands, on top of the cane, went perfectly still. Then they went white, under the leather—Cal could see it, the way the gloves stretched—and the man's whole body turned toward him on the bench, the face with the dark glasses coming around until it was pointed straight at Cal's face, as if he could see right through the lenses.
"Say that again," the man said.
"Calloway," Cal said. "Calloway Dunn. Everybody calls me Cal."
"Calloway." The man said it slowly, like a word in a foreign language that he'd studied for years and never heard spoken aloud. "Calloway's not a first name. Nobody names a child Calloway. Who named you that?"
"My mom." Cal took a half-step back without meaning to. "Why?"
"How old are you?"
"Twelve. I'll be thirteen in March." He didn't know why he was answering. "Mister—"
"March." The man's voice cracked on it. "March. What day in March?"