Like they can tell they're being watched, somehow.

No, he's being paranoid.  He rubs his eyes and stares at his plate.

Takes another bite of food.

Chews.

Swallows.

No reason to look again.

No reason for his hands to be trembling like they are.

He looks.

The stranger looks back at him.

He jumps, takes in a breath, looks away.

Okay they're not looking straight at him any more.  Probably it was just a.  Weird coincidence.

Bite of eggs.

Just eat, and don't keep looking out the window at the person your brain decided to be paranoid about, and don't be going crazy, Bryce.

The next time he looks, the stranger's gone.

He doesn't feel like leaving the diner right now, though.

He orders another plate of fries, and eats them, one by one, slowly, hoping the sun's gonna come up soon.

*

A plane lands.

"What's the purpose of your trip, ma'am?"

"Sightseeing."

"How long will you be staying?"

"Three weeks."

"Have a place to stay?"

"I have a hotel room booked - " she gives an address.

"What's your occupation?"

"Freelance journalist."

"Mm.  Anything to declare?"

"No, nothing."

"I need to see your passport."

Stamp.

"All right.  Have a good vacation, Ms. Smith."

"I expect I shall, thank you."

*

He's shaken awake.

"You can't sleep here, kid, you gotta go."

He rubs his eyes.  "Sorry."  Scrounges a few bills out of his wallet and tosses them on the table; heads out.

It's not day yet, but the sky is turning paler blue, and orange on the horizon.  No sign of the stranger who was lurking around the alleyway last night.

What the fuck is he doing, and why does he suddenly feel on the verge of tears.

He sniffs, and wipes his eyes desperately, and - walks.  Away.  Not toward his apartment, not toward anything.  Fuck toward.  He walks away.

He barely remembers the way he felt last night.  He barely remembers any way he felt.  Waste.

The sun comes up, as he walks.

His steps slow, as the city brightens.

He stops.

He isn't going anywhere.  Whatever he thought we was doing, whatever he thought he was giving up on or getting away from - it's bullshit.  He can't even get being a melodramatic loser right.

He turns around.

Because his deranged obsession with this inexplicable fucking box is somehow now the only good thing in his life, and he wants to go lean against it like a creep some more.