One minute he's got a forkful of salad in his mouth, reading about Creeley and HD and savouring the way two people can mix their words, and the next there's a wind from nowhere-- in the opposite direction of the gentle breeze that's been cooling his face-- and he's lost his page and a bite of chicken.

The underside of his watch face starts to tingle, like when he was a kid adjusting the tv antenna and Mrs. Kovacks upstairs was vacuuming-- magic. He puts his fork down casually, leaves the chicken in the dirt, and opens his book again-- A Note on Canadian Poetry, this time. Not that he's reading it. He slides his phone onto the page, leans back, starts scanning the crowd in the reflective surface, stretches out one leg so he can get at the gun at his ankle if he needs to.

So much for a quiet lunch.