A Navy peacoat dwarfed the girl who tapped Theodore Grayson on the shoulder, the hem at her knees and the sleeves swallowing her hands to the fingertips. “May I borrow your phone?”
The girl’s voice was as small as she was, but her eyes were huge. Like Grayson’s daughter. Her eyes had been like that.
“Harris, I’ll call you back, okay?” Grayson thumbed the phone off and handed it to the girl.
“Thank you.” She paced as she dialed, looking back at Grayson every few steps. But she kept her back to him once she started talking, and try as he might Grayson couldn’t make out more than a few words.
The call lasted less than a minute. As slowly as the girl had moved away from Grayson, she took even longer to walk back. “I’m sorry,” she said as she handed him the phone. “I’m so, so sorry.”