Outside, Benjamin sat down on the bench beside the door. He smoothed the photograph on his knee. He tucked the NW handkerchief back into his pocket.
He didn't cry. He didn't curse. He just sat there, 72 years old, holding a picture of his son against the October wind.
And he waited.
Across the street, a woman walking her dog paused. She saw Benjamin on the bench. An old man sitting outside a luxury store, coat buttoned to his chin, staring at nothing. She crossed to the other side. Didn't want the trouble.
A delivery driver double-parked his van, glanced at Benjamin, and muttered something to his partner. They both laughed. Benjamin heard it. He pretended he didn't.
Inside the store, the mood had shifted from tension to amusement. Derek was holding court near the watch counter, retelling the story like it was a comedy set.
"You should have seen his face when I opened the envelope." He mimicked Benjamin's expression. Wide eyes, trembling hands.
The staff laughed. Not all of them, but enough.
"11 months of saving." Derek shook his head. "11 months, and he still couldn't afford the cheapest piece in the case. That's not determination. That's delusion."
A sales associate named Terrence Blake, tall, polished, 10 years at the company, chuckled and added, "At least he knew the reference number. Give the old man that."
"Google," Derek said flatly. "Any bum with a phone can Google a watch. Doesn't make him a buyer."
Allison stayed silent. She stood near the stock room entrance, phone in her hand, staring at the message she had just sent.
The reply came 30 seconds later. Two words.
How long?
She typed back: He's outside. They just threw him out.
Three dots appeared. Then: Don't let anyone touch the security footage. I'm 15 minutes away.
Allison locked her phone and slipped it into her pocket. Her hands were still trembling, but her face was calm now. A different kind of calm than Benjamin's. The calm of someone who knows the tide is about to turn.
Back at the counter, Derek was examining the bills Benjamin had left behind. He picked one up, sniffed it dramatically, and dropped it.
"Smells like a laundromat. Bag it up and leave it at the door. If he's still out there, toss it at him."
A young associate, Kyle Patterson, bagged the cash. He walked toward the door, then hesitated. "Sir, should I... I mean, do I just hand it to him, or..."
"I said toss it." Derek didn't look up. "He's lucky I'm not calling the cops."