Martin peeks through his fingers, reduced to soft sniffling and vague surprise as the man offers him a napkin, calls him 'duck.' Maybe he shouldn't feel surprised. Adults are meant to comfort children when they cry, aren't they? Even strangers — maybe especially strangers, since they don't know how often Martin cries and haven't had time to be annoyed by it yet. He takes the napkin with trembling fingers, managing the slightest murmur of thanks as he wipes his face.

The promise of safety is such a relief he thinks he might burst into tears all over again. He quells the impulse to just rush forward and hug the man, Mr. Keane, knowing it probably isn't smart. Still a stranger, even a nice one. Sometimes it's the nice ones who are worse.

John seems to agree, the way he asks again about the police, which is a little bolstering. Martin tries to pull himself together. He has to be brave and not just go along with the man because he's nice. They ought to phone the police, they'll sort this.

Still, it would be rude not to offer his name, so says falteringly, "I, I'm M-Martin. Martin Blackwood." He looks at John, then back at Mr. Keane, hoping he'll answer the way John wants so they can just accept the help like he hopes.