If he'd been younger, more selfish, and less controlled, Kakashi might have taken a look at the proffered wheelchair, reached his absolute limit, and thrown an apocalyptic fit. But he wasn't, and even the most hard-edged ninja wouldn't lower himself to screaming at old ladies who were presumably relatives, so he just drew a long, slow breath.

And smelled bitter fury on the air.

Slowly, his spine straightened. He gave the woman a second look: perfect hair, classical clothes, exquisite posture, the subtle flavour of old-world money. No callouses, no scars, but some ninja-steel anyway. Too old to be Ginta's mother...

Grandmother, probably. And not remotely happy to see him.

Kakashi let Ryouma's bag slide off his shoulder, dropped the folder on top of it, the plastic bag on top of that, and then turned to lean both shoulders against the door. Casual but braced, entirely immovable. Behind the white-painted wood, he could sense the slow, muted flicker of sleeping chakra. Ginta's chakra.

"Thank you," he said neutrally. "I can wait."