She recalled how well prepared he’d seemed. How he’d breezed past her booth to a stool at the counter. Clean khakis, a bright red knapsack, some sort of double hat. A bucket cap fitted so well over a baseball cap, or a type she’d not seen before. Doffed, it revealed a good haircut, short on the sides in salt and pepper, and well chosen eyeglasses. He’d pulled off one upper layer at a time, three in all, as if testing the atmosphere in steps, and settled on a somehow still crisp button-down shirt. Two waitresses had recognized him, one moving opposite him behind the counter, the other to his side to view his cellphone offering. A picture or two, she’d decided. About five-ten, medium build, possibly retired – it was a late Tuesday morning after all. Mid sixties to early seventies. On a bike or afoot? He puzzled only a moment over the soup choice, and when a waitress delivered his ice water with a hefty slice of lemon he plucked the fruit from the rim of the glass, put it whole into his mouth, chewed it for ten seconds and swallowed.