"No! Please..." the old man gasped, clutching the table edge in panic, his wide eyes full of distress as if a piece of his very soul had shattered on the linoleum.
"Relax," Brock grunted, holding up a large, scarred hand to stop the old man from collapsing in an attempt to kneel. "I got it."
Brock leaned over, his leather vest creaking. He set the fallen leather satchel upright and began collecting the scattered papers and envelopes with his calloused hands. As he scooped up the loose photographs, his thumb slid over the top print, turning it face-up.
Brock froze. The air instantly left his chest.