Hands open.
The boy heard the boots on the pavement and turned.
His eyes widened.
He pressed his back against the glass door and made himself small.
The receipt crackled in his fist.
Then he whispered something so quietly Duke almost missed it.
“I was good.”
Duke stopped at once.
The words landed badly.
They were not the words of a child who had wandered too far from his mother.
They were the words of a child who had been trained to explain himself before anyone accused him.
Duke lowered himself to one knee.
His bad knee burned when it hit the pavement, but he kept his face still.
“Hey, little man,” he said.