Fiction, continued

He looked older than he was: his nose, broken again and again, seemed as if it was an afterthought, a late addition to his face. His skin was scarred not by age but by years of smoke and drink and too many meetings with concrete.

But his eyes were still eager to please. Despite all they had seen, his eyes had the eternal optimism of a kicked dog that returns again and again to its master's side. Maybe this time, his eyes said, things would go better.

He twisted his hat in his oversized hands.

She slung the duffel bag over her shoulder and let him escort her off the platform. His rough hand humbly guided the small of her back.