I try to be angry with him, feigning sullen silence. He, of course, does not have the decency to notice. From the corner of my eye I see him pass his hand over his cane like a Seer probing a crystal ball. He doesn't speak, but I know he finds no answers there.

He lifts his head, faded eyes gazing blankly at the tiled ceiling, and the failing light throws shadows on a face worn by years suspended in pain. Those years might have carved a tragic hero - instead, they left a man bitter and callous.

I click the pen tucked in my breast pocket to keep from screaming.

Or, worse, leaving.