Maybe because Marcus had just watched Ethan eat half a plate of eggs in less than 2 minutes.
Maybe it was simply that Ethan was exhausted and the diner was warm, and sometimes warmth made a person less careful.
"Yesterday morning," Ethan said. "Sort of. It wasn't much."
Marcus nodded.
"How long have you been out here?"
"A while."
"How old are you?"
"20."
Marcus put down his coffee cup.
Then looked directly at him again.
Not pity.
Not judgment.
That made it harder to categorize and therefore harder to defend against.
"You found a wallet with over $4,000 in it," Marcus said. "You're 20 years old. You're sleeping outside. You're hungry. And you walked in here to give it back."
Ethan shrugged.
"It wasn't mine."
"No," Marcus said. "It wasn't."
He paused.
"A lot of people in your position might have thought differently."
"I'm not a lot of people."
Marcus almost smiled.
Not fully.
The beginning of one that stopped halfway.
"No," he said. "You're not."
He lifted his coffee again.
"You got family somewhere?"
The question landed differently from how Marcus probably intended.
Ethan's jaw tightened.
He forced it loose.
"Not currently."
Marcus seemed to understand that not currently contained more history than its two words suggested.
He didn't press.
"Friends? Anyone?"
"I do all right."
"I'm sure you do," Marcus said.
There was no sarcasm in his voice.
No patronizing encouragement.
Something closer to respect.
The kind given only after it was earned.
Marcus meant it.
Ethan clearly did all right.
That was part of what made his situation so difficult to look at.
Marcus reached into his vest.
Pulled out a card.
Set it beside Ethan's plate.
Ethan looked.
MARCUS CALLAHAN.
One phone number.
Nothing else.
No business.
No title.
No address.
"You need something, you call that number."
Ethan looked at the card.
Then at Marcus.
"I don't want charity."
"I know."
Marcus took another drink.
"That's not what I'm offering."
Ethan studied the card again.
Then put it in the inner pocket of his jacket, the pocket with the zipper that still worked.
"I should go."
"Finish eating first."
Ethan finished.
He didn't call the number that day.
Or the next.
Or the week after.
He kept the card in his jacket and returned to his life.
Parking lots.
Shelter lines.
Constant calculations about food, distance, weather, battery life, safety, and where he could exist without being moved along.
That was the constant background noise of being without.
The endless work of surviving in a city exceptionally good at making certain people invisible.
But Ethan thought about the conversation.
More than he wanted to.
Not about the offer.
Not about what the card might mean.
He had learned not to spend too much energy imagining what might be, because what might be often turned into what wasn't.
Instead, he thought about the way Marcus looked at him.
About one sentence.
You're not a lot of people.