So I stayed ordinary.
I drove my 2008 Honda Civic. I lived in a modest apartment near Riverside Park. I wore inexpensive polos and khakis. The tailored suits stayed locked away. The black card stayed in a drawer. I looked like exactly what people expected a “simple” man to look like.
That night, I chose the outfit carefully. Wrinkled green polo. Khakis that were slightly too short. Scuffed shoes. The uniform of someone people underestimate without thinking twice.
The drive north out of Manhattan gave me time to reflect. Skyscrapers faded into wide lawns and iron gates. My phone rang halfway there.
“Dad,” Mark said, tense. “Just… park on the street. Use the side entrance if you can. And don’t order beer. Wine is fine. Water’s better.”
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