Kevan heard the waiting room door open and went out to see who was there.
“Mr. Martel?” a good-looking man Kevan figured was close to his own age asked.
“Yes. May I help you?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.” The man looked around and Kevan had a feeling he wasn’t terribly impressed with what he was seeing. Not too surprising, since the walls were institutional beige, with two chairs and a short, brown sofa along one of them. A desk, which would have been for a receptionist, if he’d had one, faced the landing doorway, while the doorway to his office was opposite the seating area. Kevan knew, with his scruff of a beard, he fit right in with the ambiance. Every morning, he vowed it was time to get rid of it—and didn’t.
“Only one way to find out. Tell me your problem,” Kevan replied. “And your
