I arrived at the coffee shop on 54th Street seven minutes early.
That was deliberate. I wanted to be seated before Lucas arrived, to have the table chosen and the sight lines established and the particular quality of composed readiness that came from not being the person who walked into a room and had to find their footing. Small advantages. I had learned to collect them.
The coffee shop was the kind that had been on the same corner for twenty years and had resisted every pressure to become something trendier, brown walls and mismatched chairs and a counter staffed by two people who moved with the unhurried efficiency of long practice. I ordered a black coffee and took the table in the back left corner, facing the door.
Lillian arrived four minutes later.
I had told her the address the
