“And the third part?”
He stirred his coffee once, though he hadn’t put anything in it.
“The third part is personal,” he said. “My father died when I was sixteen.”
I hadn’t known that.
Daniel went on.
“He had chest pain one afternoon at work and was embarrassed to make a scene. Told himself it was probably nothing. Decided to drive home instead of asking for help. He never made it.”
I sat very still.
Daniel looked out the diner window for a moment before continuing.
“So yes, when my mother said a stranger saw her in distress and refused to leave her alone, that mattered to me in a way I can’t pretend is strictly professional.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He looked back at me.
“But don’t mistake meaning for pity. Pity doesn’t survive the first quarter around here. Competence does.”
