"Can I sit with you?" the old man asked, his voice reedy and cracked with fatigue.
Brock’s brow furrowed, his dark eyes narrowing under heavy lids. He didn't like company, especially from strangers, but the old man’s knees were visibly shaking, struggling under his own weight in the middle of the crowded aisle where no other booth had an open seat.
Before Brock could utter a word, the old man shifted his weight awkwardly to reach for the edge of the laminate table. The strap of his worn leather satchel slipped off his bony shoulder, and the bag tumbled violently to the checkered tile floor.
The leather clasp snapped open upon impact. Yellowed envelopes, a pocket watch on a silver chain, and a scattering of black-and-white photographs spilled across the floor, sliding under the table right against the steel toe of Brock’s heavy combat boot.