after XI

Two hours later, shivering in the artificially too cold police station, he sat in the waiting area — waiting. He didn't know what for. He was just waiting. He had been waiting for nearly an hour with no explanation. There was no desk. No bustling room of detectives. Just a bank of industrial chairs in a lobby sequestered from the police station proper with a security lock. He rotated his foam cup of coffee with his fingers on the lip, swishing the couple of dreadful swallows that remained. He wondered — in the midst of his growing paranoia — how anyone could still be using foam cups.