The stranger seemed stressed. A cup of hot coffee in one hand, with a smartphone, squeezed between two knuckles. In the other hand, a small paper plate with an apple fritter on top and a few paper napkins bunched up underneath the plate.“May I sit here with you?” The place was packed. It was to be expected at a quarter to eight in the morning, on a workday.“Of course, you may,” answered Andrew, focusing now on the stranger. Andrew pushed the second chair out from the table using his right foot, making it easier for the young man to take a seat and put his stuff down on the table. Andrew was not in a hurry; he had ceased to be in a hurry a few years back. Severe health issues had “slowed him down some.” Plus, today, he did not have to be anywhere until early afternoon, when he would pick up his wife returning from visiting her folks from out of state. Not for the first time in the last few months, he reveled in the luxury of “time.” Years ago, he had prayed for time: time to do things right, time to conduct business correctly, time to wait for the right moment and circumstances…time. God had given him that. Often, too much of it, it seemed. But time was now his gift; he would have it for as long as he lived. Which, if he believed his doctors, would not be a long stretch anyway. He only believed them partially. The spark inside would not die, so who knows?