At the far end of the counter sat six men in leather vests, breakfast plates and coffee spread between them.
Ethan recognized the vest from the photograph.
He started walking toward them.
He made it about halfway across the diner before one man noticed.
Big.
Red beard.
Forearms suggesting a lifetime of physical work.
The man turned on his stool and regarded Ethan the way people in tight-knit motorcycle clubs often regarded strangers approaching uninvited.
Not openly threatening.
Evaluating.
Deciding.
"Something I can do for you, son?"
His voice wasn't unfriendly.
It was level.
The kind of level that suggested unfriendly remained available if circumstances required it.
Ethan kept approaching until he was close enough not to raise his voice.
"I'm looking for Marcus Callahan."
The red-bearded man's expression changed slightly.
Other men at the counter turned.
"What for?"
Ethan held up the wallet.
The silence that followed seemed to carry physical weight.
The red-bearded man looked at the wallet.
Then at Ethan.
Then toward the man sitting at the end of the counter.
The man with gray at his temples and the same heavy jaw as the driver's-license photograph.
Nothing was said.
The red-bearded man communicated something with his eyes alone.
The man at the end set down his coffee.
Stood.
Marcus Callahan was bigger in person than his driver's-license picture suggested.
Not only physically, although he was.
There was something deliberate about the way he moved that made him seem to occupy more space than his measurements could explain.
Marcus walked down the length of the counter without hurry.
Stopped in front of Ethan.
Looked at the wallet.
Then at Ethan.
"Where'd you find it?"
"Parking lot. Beside your bike. Looked like it fell from a saddlebag."
Marcus took the wallet.
Opened it.
Looked inside.
His expression didn't visibly change, but Ethan saw something move behind his eyes.
Calculation.
Assessment.
Marcus closed the wallet.
"Everything's there," Ethan said. "I didn't take anything."
"I can see that."
Marcus studied him.
Not the way the red-bearded man had.
Not assessing him as a threat.
This was something different.
Something uncomfortably close to actually being seen.
"You want to sit down?" Marcus asked.
"I'm fine."
"I wasn't asking whether you were fine. I was asking if you wanted to sit down."
Ethan sat.
Marcus Callahan ordered breakfast for him without asking what he wanted.
The waitress was a tired-looking woman named Beverly who had apparently seen stranger things than a homeless kid sitting beside a motorcycle-club member.
Marcus simply told her to bring whatever was hot.
And plenty of it.
Ethan tried not to stare too desperately when the food arrived.
He thought he was managing until Marcus spoke without looking up from his coffee.
"You don't have to pretend. There's no shame in being hungry."
Ethan picked up his fork.
For several minutes, he ate.
Neither spoke.
The other men returned to their conversations, although Ethan noticed they never completely stopped paying attention.
There remained an awareness in the room.
A collective attention that didn't announce itself.
"When was the last time you had a real meal?" Marcus asked.
"I eat."
"That's not what I asked."
Ethan considered lying.
He was good at that kind.
Not malicious lies.
Protective ones.
The kind that prevented people from looking too closely or offering things Ethan would then need to figure out how to refuse.
He had practiced them enough that they came naturally.
But something about Marcus made the lie seem pointless.
Maybe it was the directness.