Twenty minutes later, I knocked on Grandpa’s hotel-room door.
“Come in.”
He was sitting beside the balcony.
Shoes off.
Hibiscus shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
Grandma Evelyn’s photograph lay on the table beside him.
“You rested?”
“At my age, closing your eyes for twenty minutes becomes an event.”
I smiled.
“Come downstairs with me.”
“Why?”
“Someone wants to meet you.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Did I complain about the coffee again?”
“No.”
“Because I told that young man it was perfectly good coffee.”
“You said it tasted like boiled roofing shingles.”
“Constructive criticism.”
I held out my hand.
“Come on.”
He took it.
His fingers were thin.
Warm.
I had held that hand crossing streets when I was little.
Now he leaned on mine.
We took the elevator down.
The manager was waiting.
Grandpa immediately noticed something was wrong.
Or important.
“Sir?”
The manager’s voice shook.
“Mr. Carter, there’s someone here who has waited a very long time to meet you.”
