An old friend and co-worker (RC) shows up at the office to have lunch. He’s in a baby blue hoodie and looks like he hasn’t had a shower or clean clothes in a week or so. His beard is half grown in, full stubble all around. He’s got bags under his eyes, the whole nine. We take lunch in a room that looks like an elementry school cafeteria, right down to the long fold-up tables and bench seats. We’re both brown-bagging it today. We talk about how he’s been (not good, he says) and he looks uncomfortable, like he wants to ask me something and doesn’t know how. Sitting there together, we eat ham sandwiches on rye bread and I wonder when he’ll get whatever it is off his chest.