Dick/Bruce
Bruce moved out onto the sidewalk. He knew he looked old, bent slightly and with weight to one side on a deceptively narrow wooden cane. There was even a wrap sweater the color of new leaves, and the gray stripes over his ears were growing wider and longer. He knew it, but there was nothing he could do about it. Bruce let the door of the antique store brush off his shoulder and behind him; he had chosen a time when he knew Louis wasn't there to say goodbye. He felt Louis had everything he needed to pull himself out of the situation, and anything from here forward would be unwelcome interference.
Bruce looked at the police SUV with a sense of disconnect. No police vehicle affected him with discomfort or uncertainty, but the height of the vehicle off the road did. How far we have fallen.
Bruce moved along, the strap of one of his dark military bags dangling awkwardly. Carrying things and moving had abruptly become much more difficult than before. He pulled the passenger door open and swung the bag in first before looking up at his oldest son. "How's the job?"