The old man looked at him through his mud-streaked lenses. “You already participated.”
The words were quiet, which somehow made them hit harder. Eli looked down at his boots. “Yes, sir.”
Without another word, Eli walked over and retrieved the orange before another vehicle could crush it. He gathered an apple, a dented can of soup, and a vacuum-sealed package of coffee. The bread was completely ruined, and the eggs were a yellow paste on the gravel. The paper bag was nothing but wet pulp.
“I’m sorry,” Eli offered.
The old man removed his glasses, calmly wiping them with a dry corner of his woolen scarf. “You weren’t leading.”
“No.”
“You slowed down.”
“Not enough.”
The old man studied the young biker. Eli had braced himself for anger, perhaps even shouting or cursing. Instead, the man looked at him with a piercing, analytical gaze, as though calculating whether Eli was worth any further conversation.
“Young men often think being less cruel than the man ahead of them makes them innocent.”