Shark sat at the end of the bench, slowly polishing his wire-rimmed glasses with his sleeve as he watched the front doors.
A boy in a faded green shirt walked up to the edge of the table. He was no older than six, his face pale and his eyes fixed on Mike. He reached into his pocket and placed seven crumpled dollar bills on the worn wood.
The table went quiet. Mike looked at the crumpled cash, then rubbed his thick silver wedding band with his thumb.
“What is this for, son?” Mike asked, his voice a slow, low rumble.
The boy pulled at the neck of his shirt, dragging the collar down. Just below his throat, a dark purple bruise shaped like a heavy thumb pressed into his skin, though Mike was still looking at the money.
“My name is Tyler,” the boy whispered, his breath shallow. “Are you the ones who stop people?”
Mike leaned forward, his elbows resting on the pine. He saw the purple mark now, dark against the boy’s collarbone.
“We help when we can,” Mike said. “Who needs stopping?”
“Donald,” Tyler whispered. “He is loud. Will you help or not?”
Before Mike could answer, a young woman hurried out of the hallway by the payphones. She wore a blue wrist brace on her right arm, and her face was covered in a thick layer of liquid makeup that did not quite match the pale skin of her neck.
