Chapter Eighteen
Ric sat at his desk staring out the window. Another day, and another horde of pedestrians paraded past on the other side of the glass. He recognized the regulars. The man clutched his battered briefcase and walked stiffly, looking neither left nor right. There was the widow—or so he called her because she only wore black. She wore a different dress each time he saw her, but it was always black. She too wore a hat. Hers was a wide-brimmed affair adorned with a small piece of netting that hung over her face.
Then there were the schoolkids. A passel of tow-headed children who cavorted and carried on as they went. Recently, they had taken to waving as they tumbled past. He smiled at the memory of the gap-toothed grin of the smallest. The boy had stopped and pointed to the em
