We headed for the diner, which they’d moved two blocks behind the old post office where, as a boy, I’d stared at its WWI mural and wanted posters exhibiting desperadoes’ misdeeds and photos.
Butch ordered eggs over easy; scrambled for me. I watched him eat, banging his fork on the plate. His gray hair hung in his face. I blurted out, “You look like your father!”
“I’ll buy that,” he replied.