Patrick made his way through the food court with a sullen look not atypical for a man working food service for barely above minimum wage. But more than the indignities of the job weighed down on his mind. He used to be somebody. Now he was just another schmuck in an apron and a paper hat, going nowhere.

It had to be this way, of course. In his old life, he had flown too close to the sun and become one of the most notorious fugitives in the country. He pulled the very last string he could and became the client of a man who knew how to make people disappear. He had come out on the other side alive but scarred, soul stripped bare. Now, he stood here, serving pretzels and fries at some mall's food court, feeling every day the lure of getting back behind that wheel again.

But that was fantasy. Reality was the half-hour left on his lunch break.

"Hey, mister," a young girl said. He deliberately delayed a moment before he stirred, turning slowly on the uncomfortable bench, hoping against hope she would lose interest. Little girls had been the source of more trouble than could be believed.

"Hi," he said. "What can I do for you, kiddo?"

She was adorable, with blond curls framing her small face perfectly, blue eyes twinkling brightly as she smiled up at him. "I think I know you," she said.

He tried to keep his poker face as he felt a cold sweat coming on. "I'm here all the time. I work just around the corner," he pointed absently.

She shook her head, the pink ribbons in her hair dancing with her locks. "I know you from somewhere, mister. I've seen you. I know it."

Patrick swallowed hard. "You must have me mixed up with somebody. I'm sorry." He made a show of looking at his cheap watch and crumpling up the greasy paper bag from the remains of his lunch. "Excuse me. You're a cute kid, but I have to be going—"

"I know!" she said in a lightbulb moment. "You're him, the guy," she said before looking around conspicuously, then leaning forward and whispering, "the headpats guy."

Patrick's head swam with vertigo. All the color seemed to seep out of the scene. She had him dead to rights. He tried to play it cool, "I have no idea what you're talking about," and stood up from the bench.

Patrick took one step before the little blonde tugged on his arm. "You said I was cute, mister. Cute, good girls deserve headpats. Isn't that right?"

"Keep your voice down, about the… you know."

"It's been so long since I've had headpats. Please, pretty please, mister. I… I need the good pats on my head, the soft headpats and to be told I'm good. Can you do that for me? Can I have just one headpat?"