The television above the diner's pie case interrupted Martin's answer before he could give Daniel another reassuring estimate. It was October 19, and the report concerned a shooting outside a restaurant in Ashland. A customer at the counter asked for the volume. The server reached for the remote with a coffeepot still in her other hand. Martin stopped talking. Across the booth, Daniel put down the menu he had already read twice.
They had intended to spend the evening together. Martin had finished his assigned hours; Daniel had traded an errand with a coworker to make room. By the time they met, the evening had narrowed to this diner, with Daniel still needing to collect his laundry before the laundromat closed. Now the restaurant on the screen made their own window seem larger. Beyond it stood two empty patio tables, a newspaper box, and Daniel's car beneath a light.
The report gave Martin no authority he had lacked a minute earlier. He watched with everyone else, careful not to turn a public account into an official conclusion. Daniel looked from the screen to him. Martin shook his head slightly. He had nothing additional to tell. That small admission seemed to settle his son more than an explanation would have. They ordered sandwiches when the server came back, though neither asked for the television to be turned down.
Later, an authorized telephone update confirmed for Martin that the Ashland restaurant shooting had left a survivor. He took the call in the narrow entrance vestibule, where the inner door kept opening against a rubber stop. He received the information, confirmed where he could be reached, and returned to the booth. Daniel had moved Martin's plate away from the edge. Martin said only that he might need to remain available. He did not pass along the briefing.
Their server was standing at the glass door that led to the patio. She had put on a cardigan over her uniform and held a plastic tub against her hip. Outside, paper placemats stirred beneath a metal clip. She opened the door an inch, then closed it. A man waiting to pay told her she ought to forget the tables. From the kitchen someone asked where the tub had gone. She answered neither of them.
Martin's first impulse was to tell her to stay inside. He could hear the authority in that proposed sentence, and the promise it would seem to carry. Instead he asked what remained to be done. Two tabletop bins and the loose paper needed bringing in, she said; the furniture could stay. She wanted to finish and leave, but she could not make herself cross the threshold. Martin told her he could not assess her safety from where he stood.
Daniel came up beside him with their coats. 'We can carry something if you want,' he said to her. Then, quietly to Martin: 'Carry something. Not take charge.' The correction stung because it was exact. The server looked toward the kitchen and obtained a brief nod from the manager. She chose to hold the door and receive the bins. Father and son brought them in together, an ordinary task that gave nobody protection and nevertheless needed doing.
Outside afterward, Martin caught himself studying the parking spaces instead of finding his keys. Daniel waited beside his own car without asking what he was looking for. They had not finished their sandwiches. The server had wrapped the halves in waxed paper and thanked them as if they had repaired something. Martin knew they had not. They had made one small departure easier, and he wished he could accept its size without trying to enlarge it.
'How long do you think this goes on?' Daniel asked. Martin could have answered with staffing, effort, or the number of agencies working. None answered the question. 'I don't know,' he said. 'And I can't tell you when ordinary things will feel ordinary again.' Daniel rubbed a thumb along the folded edge of the sandwich wrapper. Martin added, before he could retreat from it, 'I can't make your decisions until then, either.'
Daniel said he still wanted to see him, but not if every meeting became a negotiation over whether he should work. They could arrange calls, rides, errands—things each could actually do. A truck passed on the road, briefly drowning him out. Martin waited instead of supplying the rest. When Daniel spoke again, his voice was tired rather than angry. 'Make an arrangement you can keep, Dad. Tell me when you don't know. I need that more than another promise I'll be safe.'