The shop, situated in Hopewell, was one that Edgar frequented. At this point, he was almost sure that they had an open tab for him or his name written on some sort of frequent patron list. He could imagine it now: Edgar Yang, black card, accompanied with a photo of him.

Without waiting for instructions, Edgar made his way to a table in the back. There weren’t very many people around but still, a creature of habit and precision, he gravitated to his usual – a table situated in a corner that was in the perfect position to view the exits. This was his way: positioning himself so that he could catalogue every person who entered or exited the premises.

“Malbec,” Edgar ordered, one finger raised to catch the eye of one of the waitresses. As she approached, Edgar flashed a smile in her direction. “The Fortier label, please.”  He’d never seen her before, which meant that she had to be a recent hire. “And I’m expecting a guest. Would you be so kind as to point her in this direction when she arrives?”