“That’s all I do grow: roses and weeds,” Ken returned, moving so his back was now to the table.
“That’s about my limit too,” the old man said, and got stiffly to his feet and went to the door to look up at the rain-swollen clouds.
Ken picked up the book and held it behind him.
“Haven’t you anyone to relieve you?” he asked, joining the old man at the door.
“I go off around eight o’clock. When you get to my age, mister, you don’t need much sleep.”
“Maybe you’re right. Well, so long. I need all the sleep I can get.”
Ken stepped out into the darkness, feeling the rain against his sweating face.
“I’ll just mark you off in my book,” the attendant said. “What’s your number?”
Ken’s heart stopped, then raced.
“My number?” he repeated blankly.