Part 2 ⬇️

The manager laughed first.

"Change the will?" He crossed his arms.

"Old man, you're sitting in the rain begging for scraps.

What will?"

Walter didn't flinch.

He spoke quietly into the phone, gave a name, gave a number, and then simply waited.

Thirty seconds later, the manager's own phone buzzed in his pocket.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

And again.

He finally pulled it out — and the color drained from his face.

It was the owner of the restaurant.

His boss.

Calling at 10 p.m.

on a Friday night.

"Pick it up," Walter said calmly.

"He already knows."

The waitress stood very still.

She didn't understand what was happening — but she could see the manager's hands were shaking now.

He answered the call.

Said nothing.

Just listened.

Then he lowered the phone and looked at Walter like a man who had just realized he was standing at the edge of something he couldn't come back from.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

Walter looked at the waitress instead of answering him.

"What's your name?" he asked her gently.

She told him.

He nodded slowly, like he was committing it to memory.

Then he turned back to the manager.

"You'll know exactly who I am by morning."