Mr. Wood was still wearing the same faded jacket, which now had a few more patches. It was impossible to tell how many years he'd worn it, but it was folded neatly and washed clean. His posture was ramrod straight, giving him an air that was clearly different from that of an ordinary old man.
The old man's complexion looked better than it had recently, though he was still gaunt. He kept looking toward the road, occasionally opening his drawer for a peek. Seeing the small ticket was still there, he relaxed.
"Grandpa Wood!"
Adrian Hawthorne had arrived. He took a bulging bag from his bicycle basket. Inside were Qingming Guo that Rosalind Green had made; she had stayed up late last night making them, so they were still fresh. There were also a dozen or so eggs.
