He took the trays before she could protest. "How long are you out of work?"
"Another couple of weeks. Workers' compensation is processing."
The reply came a little too quickly. David recognized the effort to make uncertainty sound routine, because he had used the same tone when he could not pay rent and wanted no one to worry. He placed the trays on the counter and said only, "Let me know if you need a lift or anything picked up."
"You come in here for twenty minutes and start running everyone's life," Denise complained, smiling.
"It's a talent."
Later, when Denise went to help Walter organize the pantry, David quietly slipped several folded bills into an unmarked envelope and placed it in the canvas bag she kept beneath a chair. Walter saw the movement from the counter and raised an eyebrow. David lifted one finger to his lips, and the older man pretended to examine his clipboard.
"You're terrible at being anonymous," Walter murmured when David returned.
"Then forget you saw it."
"Forget what? At my age, I forget things professionally."
David shook his head, smiling. For a few minutes the morning in Hawthorne Ridge felt distant enough to breathe around. Here, the people around him knew exactly what he did with his hands, not what he owned or the titles printed beside his name.
The volunteers were turning off lights when Walter checked his phone and announced that his usual bus had been canceled. David picked up his truck keys. "Come on. I'll take you home."
"I can wait for the next one."
"In the rain?"
"I'm seventy-one, not helpless."
"I didn't say you were. I said I'm driving you."
Walter regarded him suspiciously, then climbed into the passenger seat without another word. The rain was gentle, enough to soften the neon outside the shops and leave bright streaks across the windshield. As David started the engine, the brass compass swung from the key ring, and Walter's expression changed.
"You still carry George's compass?" he asked.
David looked down. "Every day."
"You ever talk to him anymore?"
"Not lately."
Walter nodded, understanding more than he said. He had been there when David lost his business and when the people David trusted stopped returning his calls. He also knew that the compass represented a time before the collapse, when the young engineer's future had seemed as open and certain as the road ahead of him.
"Something happen today?" Walter asked.
David watched the wipers move. "A neighbor called the police on me."
Walter turned fully toward him. "For what?"
"She decided I stole my car."
"What car?"
"The Ferrari."
Walter stared at him for three seconds. "I told you to buy a Buick."
David laughed despite himself, then fell quiet. "They checked the registration. They checked the deed. She still told me owning the place didn't mean I belonged there."
Walter's expression softened, and he let the silence settle before answering. "That was never about a car, son."
"I know."
"You know something else? Being calm doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. You used to pretend that when your company went under."
David's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Walter had seen him during months when he wore a pressed shirt in the morning and ate crackers in a rented room at night. He had never offered grand speeches about resilience; he had simply heated stew, found odd jobs, and refused to let David disappear into isolation.
"That was a long time ago," David said.
"Pain doesn't own a calendar," Walter replied.