He held the bill without closing his hand around it.
For a long moment, he simply looked at me, and there was such concentration in his expression that I became slightly uncomfortable, as though he were trying to memorize my face.
Then he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Caroline.”
“Last name?”
I laughed softly.
“Brooks. Why?”
He nodded to himself.
“Because I’d like to remember it.”
I should have asked more questions, but I was tired, the girls needed to get home, and I was beginning to worry about missing the final bus.
Before I turned away, I asked his name.
He paused.
“Walter,” he said. “Walter Hayes.”
I told him to stay warm and hurried toward the bus stop.
The final bus had already gone.
I stood beneath the shelter for ten miserable minutes before accepting what had happened, then began pushing the stroller toward home, almost four miles away.
