“Question is more along the lines of whether I can help you,” the man said. “I heard some of what you said to Dragon, three days ago.”

It was hard to think about. Images of blood and bodies weighed heavy on his mind. He closed his eyes before fixing his focus on the food behind the glass displays.

“Were you there?” he asked, to maintain the conversation.

“No. Word of what you said reached me secondhand. Could I buy you lunch? I’d like to talk about things.”

“Ah,” Gary said. “I’ve just come from a funeral. My second today. She was a friend. I’d like some peace and quiet to grieve.”

“Of course. Could I give you my card, so you can call me at your convenience?”

Gary nodded.

The man was quick to present a card. Erwin Daeyoung. The English writing of the name was mirrored by what he presumed was the Korean translation. Mediation and Public Relations. The remainder of the card was in fine gold script—Korean letters to go with a Korean name.

He reached the end of the line, paid, and then waited for his food. He tried to think of what he could do for Heather, and for the others. His thoughts went in circles as he considered gestures, worried about whether the gestures would flop—donation drives were difficult when everyone anticipated a difficult winter. He thought of statues and symbols and nothing fit. Heather had always been a doer, not someone who put emphasis on things. Ed had been practical, and would have said something about any statue. The refugees who’d never gotten their second chance, because they so often didn’t matter—how did he even pay respect to that?

He was pissed, and he couldn’t even express it. He’d tried to write two articles before abandoning them, and there were no people to speak to that understood things quite like Heather had.

In one corner of the cheap little diner, a television showed Jeanne Wynn addressing the city.

Gary’s finger tapped against his leg. The card was within his pocket.

Looking back, he saw the man in line, and signaled him.

“My lunch is already paid for,” he said. “But if you want to talk, you can sit with me. My thoughts aren’t where they should be.”

“I don’t blame you. These are confusing times. I’ll join you as soon as I have my meal.”

He sat, setting his sandwich and fries down on the table, the card turned over in his hand while he waited.

Erwin sat across from him.

“You’re a mediator? And PR.”

“Are you a politician, Gary Nieves?” Erwin asked.

“No, not anymore,” Gary said.

“Then no, I’m not a mediator or a PR person. Not anymore. Despite that, I could be said to resemble one, because I have the skills. Maybe the same is true for you.”

“Maybe. It’s still cryptic.”