A man by the far wall was looking at him with something that wasn’t quite a smirk but was close enough. One older woman near the back met his eyes with what might have been sympathy before looking away. He went back to his chair and sat down. He looked at his hands. He looked at the folder.
He thought about Margaret at the kitchen window with her coffee and told himself to breathe. He didn’t notice Cindy at first. She wasn’t on the phone. She was leaning slightly toward her screen, typing slowly, the way people typed when they were reading rather than entering. She stopped. Started again. Her jaw tightened in a way he could see even from across the lobby.