“I don’t want excuses.” She slid a pen and a piece of blank paper across the table, her eyes still on his. “I want you to write your name down.”

He opened his mouth.

“Do it quickly. No talking.”

Diane is a nice person. Nice people are not good at being direct. Nice people do not like to make others feel rushed or indebted or insulted. Nice people like to make others feel nice. It is difficult to maintain niceness while being assertive. You can be respectful and assertive, of course, but that has nothing to do with being nice.

“And while you’re doing that I’m going to take pictures of you. I’m not going to be put in this position of ridicule again.”

She held her phone up.

“I’m not trying to ridicule you, Diane. I’m happy to help you in whatever way I can,” he said, writing out his name on the page. Diane looked at the name, nodded, and immediately forgot it.

“Help me? Evan, I don’t remember how I got to this diner. Do you know how uncomfortable that makes me?”

Laura returned before he could reply. She placed a bowl of fruit and a pile of pumice stones in front of Diane. She refilled both coffees.

“Here’s your Greek salad,” Laura said. “And here’s more coffee, handsome.” She glanced at the man and raised her eyebrows at Diane, grinning. Diane did not move her eyes from the man. Laura shrugged, walked away, and forgot what had just happened.

Diane took several pictures of him.

“It’s hard to expl——,” he said.

“Try,” she interrupted.

The man in the tan jacket holding a deerskin suitcase explained. Diane understood. She nodded. She protested. She decided she would never do what he said, and then she agreed to think about it.

She took a sip of coffee. She had no memory of what he had just said.

“You’ll need this.” He handed her a slip of paper that said “KING CITY.”

“What is this?” she said.

Instead of answering, he pointed at the man in the white apron with blond hair walking past their table.

“That is who I mean. That is who I mean,” the man in the tan jacket whispered in Diane’s left ear even as he sat across the table from her, his mouth not moving.

“Troy?” She followed Troy with her eyes. “How do you know him?”

She turned back to where the man in the tan jacket had been sitting. He was, of course, gone. His chair was pulled out, his coffee half empty. Some currency that was clearly marked as American but that she did not recognize lay on the table.

“I already explained that to you. Remember?” came his whisper in her right ear. “Give that paper to Josh. I want to meet Josh.”