Brian Lu examined the flowers in his hand. They didn't look that impressive after carrying them across town. He looked at the antique store. He had already come this far, he might as well go in.

He pushed into the shop, looking at the what-nots filling the shelves. It looked like a bunch of junk to him. Who would want to buy this stuff?

Sara Wong glanced up from behind the counter set next to the door. Opened school books and a laptop rested on the wooden top next to the register. The register looked like it belonged on a shelf with its heavy body and keys on posts.

“I thought we had an agreement,” said Sara. Her face hardened into an oval mask. “You're not supposed to be bothering me any more.”

“I am not bothering you,” said Brian. He held out the battered flowers. “These were delivered to the apartment.”

“Really?,” said Sara. She crossed her arms. “And who would send me flowers?”

Brian checked the card. He scratched his head.

“I can't pronounce the name,” he admitted. “Holopoulous?”

“Let me see them,” said Sara. She held out her hand. She frowned at the card after she had the blooms in hand. “This is from my old professor. I thought he was dead.”

“Why?,” asked Brian. He put his hands in his pockets. His shaggy hair and second hand clothes made him look homeless. He had a thin mustache, but couldn't grow hair on his face to save his life.

“What?,” said Sara. She blinked herself back to the present.

“Why did you think he was dead?,” asked Brian. He looked around the shop from where he stood.

He didn't want to look at her oval face, braided hair, or slim body in the dress casual of her job. It brought back memories of things he had wanted, and had slipped through his hands.

Now they had a truce. He was supposed to leave her alone so she could move on with her life, get through school, and live in a place she sublet from an old couple that had gone home to the old country for an indeterminate amount of time.

She would do the same for him even though that wasn't what he wanted.

“He was supposed to be on a crashed plane overseas,” said Sara. “That was a couple of years ago. Why would he send me flowers now?”

“They came by messenger to the old place,” said Brian. “Dad signed for them.”

“Your dad signed for them?,” said Sara. “Why was your dad at our old apartment?”

“He lives there now,” said Brian. He shrugged. “I couldn't afford it on my own, so I traded the apartment for his boat. I pay half the rent and we don't have to talk to each other that much.”

Sara frowned at him.

“You're living on your dad's boat?,” she asked. “You get seasick at the drop of a hat.”

“I pulled it on land, and have it parked on a trailer,” Brian said. “I'm trying to think of a way I can use it as the base of a house.”

“Good luck with that,” said Sara. “Thanks for bringing the flowers. Have a good day.”

“See you around, Sara,” said Brian. He stepped out of the shop. He felt something on his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand without thinking.

He walked away from the shop. He still had to practice so his dad would stay off his back, then he could go home and have dinner, before laying down to sleep.

Why had a dead man sent his ex-girlfriend flowers? He felt a tinge of anger trying to make him turn around and start asking questions. He kept walking. Sara wouldn't tell him anything, and he would just hurt himself trying to force words out of her.

An explanation would come if he kept an eye on things and didn't force the situation.

He decided to stop at the library before he went to practice. Maybe the internet could tell him about Holopolous. If he survived, who had been on the plane when it went down?

If he still thought Sara was living at the apartment, he must have known she had a boyfriend. Why send flowers when he didn't know if she was still involved with someone.

Had Sara told anybody about him? He thought about it as he walked. He couldn't remember meeting any of her friends from the school. He had taken Sara on scavenging runs, and introduced her to the people he associated with when he going through abandoned buildings and tunnels.

Had he been a secret boyfriend? He thought about it, but he wasn't sure. It didn't matter now. Sara had moved out one day and left him a letter telling him why. He had talked to her since and they had agreed on their truce.

She had got the better part of the deal in his opinion.

He spotted the library and slouched down the sidewalk past the sign in front proclaiming the Eugene Vetter Library in capital letters. He walked up the broad narrow steps, through the courtyard on bricks with benches and small tables, and stepped inside the foyer. Noise from the street almost vanished once he closed the door.

He took a moment to read the signs before walking to the narrow room full of desktops waiting to access the Internet. He sat down at an empty one and signed in with his library card number and four numbers from a phone he hadn't had since his breakup.

As soon as he could access Google, he typed in what he could remember of the name, and professor, and plane crash. Google asked if he meant someone else with a more reasonable spelling of the name. He agreed and got a list of stories about the plane crash.

Scanning through the stories and included pictures gave him an understanding of why Sara would think her professor was dead. The plane had taken off from Hong Kong and flown over the Pacific. A storm had come up. Radio calls from the cockpit mention loss of equipment from a lightning strike. Then the plane had crashed with everyone aboard.

And a few years later, one of the people on the crashed plane was sending flowers to an old student, had not called anybody, and probably should have called somebody to let them know he was alive. And if he did survive the plowing of the plane into the ocean, had any of the other passengers.

Should he call someone? Who could he call? And he didn't have any proof of the existence of this guy other than the flowers he had delivered to his girlfriend.

He realized that he couldn't trust Sara to back him up. She already believed the flowers were some kind of take me back gift.

He hadn't asked for her to leave. She had left on her own.

And she didn't want him hanging around.

He shut down the Internet and left the library. He still had practice to do. Once he was done with that, he could think about things and try to decide what to do.

Maybe he should leave this alone. Sara could take care of herself. She didn't need a broken down fighter like him around. She needed a man who could survive a fatal impact with the ocean.

He snorted to himself as he walked. He sounded like a horse disagreeing with its rider which way they should go.

Brian reached the Waldorf Heights Park. He walked to where the tennis courts had been paved and fenced in. He pulled a ball out of his jacket pocket and bounced it on the court as he readied himself to play some solo handball on the concrete walls in front of the fences protecting the backs of the players from direct assassination.

The tennis and basketball courts were popular with the kids. So was settling old scores. The hanging walls on the fences was supposed to keep the score settling down.

He didn't know how exactly that was supposed to work, but for a few hours a day, no one was in the park. It was the perfect time for him to practice.

Brian dropped the ball on his foot. He kicked it into the nearest blanket wall. He kicked the rebound back, then the next and the next. He smiled at the exertion as he kept working.

He kicked the ball back up into his hand when he started attracting attention. He stepped off the tennis court as he put the ball back into his coat pocket. He knew a little about fighting but his father was the best according to anyone who moved in those circles.

He could hold his own, but didn't want to do that against people he didn't care about. If he got into a real fight, he didn't want other people to know how well he was being right,

Fighting for money had cured him of any desire to be flashy when a simple kick to the face did things for him better. He had gone back to the fighting after he had lost Sara. Punching someone in the face had eased the pain some.

His dad and he had made some money as he counseled himself about his heartbreak.

“You Brian Lu?,” said a man in a black suit. A small group stood behind him. They all looked bored, but scrubbed down and slicked back in their suits. Some had adopted colored ties to stand out among their friends.

“Nope,” said Brian. Fighting in the park was just as good as fighting anywhere else, but he didn't want to deal with a bunch of yahoos looking for trouble.

“Really?,” said the spokesman. He held up a picture. “This is Brian Lu, and he looks like you except with a better haircut.”

Brian squinted at the picture. It was from the apartment. How had they got around his dad to steal it? The old man was not known for his tolerance of people invading his space.

“What's this about?,” asked Brian. He put his hands in his pockets to appear less threatening.

“We want you to stay away from Sara Wong or else,” said the spokesman. He put the picture back in his jacket pocket.

“Why?,” asked Brian. He doubted Sara would ask a bunch of nimrods to come after him. Maybe this had something to do with the flowers.

“I don't have to tell you why,” said the spokesman. “Do what I say or I will make an example of you.”

“I would like the picture back,” said Brian. “That belongs to me.”

“Do you think you can take it?,” said the spokesman.

"Let's be reasonable,” said Brian. “I don't think whomever sent you told you what I do for a living, and I don't want to have to hurt all of you over a photograph that's mine. Just hand me back the photo, and I will maybe listen to your demand that I stay away from my ex. I don't really care if I make an example of you. It would be bragging rights on my dad.”

“No,” said the spokesman. He smiled with a mouthpiece made of diamonds.

“Just remember,” said Brian. He took the ball out of his pocket. “You didn't have to go to the hospital.”