Some people talk with their hands. I had a friend in college who claimed if you wanted her to be quiet all you had to do was get her to sit on her hands and she’d be struck mute. The thin middle-aged man with the blue scarf thrown over his shoulder was one of these people.

Linda stared at him in confusion, mouth agape slightly, eyes blurred, head tilted. I’ve seen this one before. He was talking about something she didn’t comprehend, or didn’t want to, and she had totally tuned out like an old radio that can’t stay on station no matter how much you twiddle its knobs. Her gaze met mine over his shoulder and her face brightened. She beckoned me over and I obeyed with an internal sigh.

“Nina, come and meet Mr. Archer.”

We shook hands politely and I waited...

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