“Sit down, son,” he said.
It was not quite a request.
Noah sat.
Jackson set the wallet on the table between them and folded his hands on top of it.
He looked at Noah the way very few adults had looked at Noah in a very long time, like he was actually trying to understand something about him, not just categorize him.
“You counted it?” Jackson asked.
Noah nodded once.
“Didn’t take anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
It was a genuine question.
Not rhetorical.
Not a test.
Or at least not only a test.
The man actually wanted to know.
Noah thought about how to answer it.
He could have said something about principles. He could have reached for something noble sounding, something that would land well in a room full of men who organized themselves around codes of conduct.
But he did not.
“Because it wasn’t mine,” he said. “That’s it. That’s the whole reason.”
Jackson studied him.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
The older man looked at him for another long moment.
Then he said, “What are you drinking?”
“Water’s fine.”
“You eating today?”
Noah did not answer immediately, which was an answer.
Jackson turned and raised two fingers at the waitress, who had not moved from behind the counter.
She nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen.
Around them, the diner slowly returned to its own conversations, the way water fills back in after you lift your hand out of it.
“Talk to me,” Jackson said.