The hum of the old ceiling vent filled the rehab center’s waiting area. Travis sat two seats over from the door, his forearm resting across his cane. The PT aide had gone to fetch a new resistance band; he was killing time watching the dust swirl in the sunbeam that cut across the linoleum.

He noticed the guy across from him — thin, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, a sort of restless energy in his knee.

Travis nodded once, half-smile crooked at the corner. “New here?”

He tapped the cane lightly against his boot and added, “Or just unlucky enough to get the same time slot as me?”

He didn’t sound mean about it; it was the kind of deadpan that invited an answer.