Set about a month after the warehouse fiasco.

There he was again.

The old man had been sitting in front of that empty checkerboard for the past four days, now. Whenever Diane came in, whenever she left, wherever she went, he was always there. In her mind, she'd made a life for him. Maybe his wife was passed on, maybe his children had all left home, maybe he had nobody to look out for him.

He certainly didn't look as though anyone cared about him. Bundled in the style of age, with a heavy wool coat against the young spring air, his floppy, dirty fisherman's hat slung down around his eyes and ears. A pair of scuffed black boots lay at the end of shapeless, gray pants. He was just another stain on the map of New York. Something to be looked through as everyone found their way through days and streets and lives.

But she hadn't noticed him. Not officially. Not until today.

A small squadron of young men had begun to stake the old man out, to watch his movements. They had been taking their time getting closer and closer, shooting wary glances at the station house as they stood around talking.

This morning, when Diane walked up the front steps, she'd given them a thorough looking at. They were starting to get closer, starting to stare at the back of the old man's head, starting to read the value of his clothing and check for the bump of his wallet.

They were definitely looking for trouble.

She didn't know quite why she'd picked today, but it was probably a good thing for the old man that she had, because the second she turned and started across the street, the young men scattered like pigeons from a housecat. Not exactly terrified, but not exactly wanting to hang around anymore, either.

As soon as she felt within earshot of the man, she called out to him.

"Sir?"

"Eh?"

"Sir, are you alright? Do you need a police officer?"

"Not exactly."