“You okay?” I asked as I stepped out of the car. “Yeah,” he said. Then, after a pause, “I think so.” He looked young. Mid-twenties, maybe. No visible injuries. No smell of alcohol. His hands weren’t shaking. Nothing about him screamed trouble, and yet nothing about him felt ordinary either.
“Where you headed?” I asked. He hesitated, just long enough for the silence to stretch. “Work.” “What kind of work?” Another pause. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he had to reach for the answer. “Warehouse.” “Where’s that at?”