In a booth near the soda fountain sat a twelve year old boy named Tyler Bennett, who was tall for his age yet narrow shouldered, with limbs that seemed to have grown faster than his appetite. His sandy brown hair had been unevenly trimmed at the back, as if someone at home had attempted to save money on a haircut and given up halfway through. He wore a faded forest green sweatshirt whose cuffs had thinned from repeated washing, and his sneakers were clean but visibly worn along the edges of their soles. In front of him stood a tall glass of water packed with ice that had already begun to melt into itself, and condensation pooled beneath it on a napkin whose corners curled upward. He had not ordered food, and when the waitress first approached him he had simply said, “Just water, please,” in a careful voice that was polite enough to discourage further questions.
He had been sitting there for fifty eight minutes.