The man at the coffee cart takes the tip with less bewilderment than the formality that accompanies it.

The nurse at reception says, what a devoted grandson, and doesn't know why that makes the pain rise behind his eyes.

The landlord asks if this is all he's bringing with him—this duffel bag—and he just shrugs and says he'll buy more. Or not.

The girl at the park runs an extra lap again, and he isn't looking up from his newspaper, but she sees him blush.

The priest in the confessional tries to say, these aren't sins, this is grief—but it is hard to understand how such a young man could be set in guilt so deeply.

The little girl says, "Are you Iron Man?" but he doesn't yet know who that is.

The agent down the hall catches him stargazing on the sidewalk one night. She doesn't join him, though she wants to.

The soldier says, "Where did you serve?" and frowns when his words make the stranger wince.

The man behind the eye-patch says, "He'll come around."

The woman in the hospital bed never stopped loving him, but she knows it doesn't do him any good.