The next morning, Evan taped a temporary closure notice to the window.
The empty parking lot unsettled Evan more than the official notice. He knew the names of the school bus drivers who stopped for coffee and the retirees who ordered the same toast every day. He considered the entire conversation before deciding what to say.
It was the first time the Corner Table had stopped serving breakfast on a weekday since a flood sixteen years earlier. By seven o'clock, three regular customers were standing outside reading the sign. Mrs. Conway, who had eaten oatmeal there since her husband died, asked whether she could come in just for coffee. Evan shook his head. "Not until we're cleared." She touched his arm and said she hoped the repairs would be quick. Behind her, a maintenance truck pulled up. The landlord's representative had finally hired a licensed heating contractor, but the technician refused to restart the boiler after finding severe corrosion near an exhaust joint. The readings fluctuated with outdoor temperature and the kitchen's extraction fans. In certain operating conditions, combustion gases could be pulled toward occupied rooms. Evan understood enough to feel ashamed of yesterday's anger. Benjamin had not caused the hazard. He had made it impossible to ignore. Upstairs, the tenants were temporarily relocated while their units were tested and alternative heating arrangements considered. One was a nursing student who had been waking with headaches for several weeks. She had blamed late shifts. Another was a single father who feared losing hourly wages while his children were out of school. Denise argued with the property company about compensation. Evan spent the afternoon calling suppliers and informing his staff that shifts were suspended. He asked the senior center whether its dinners could be prepared in a church kitchen. The director said volunteers could help for a few nights, but their facility lacked the equipment for the full program. Evan went home exhausted. His apartment was small and quiet. He made toast for dinner and stood by the window, watching traffic pass under wet streetlights. He was angry at the landlord, frightened for his coworkers, and secretly afraid that he had reached an age when starting over would be impossible. A knock interrupted his thoughts. Benjamin Mercer stood outside with an older woman holding a cardboard box. Her hair was streaked with gray, and she wore a burgundy coat. "I hope we're not too late," the young man said. The woman stepped into the light. "Evan?" He blinked. She smiled through tears. "I'm Nora Mercer. You bought dinner for my family during a snowstorm." Evan looked again at Benjamin, and the shape of the little boy's eyes came suddenly back to him.