On the way to the restaurant, he stops at a barbershop on Telegraph. The place is old-school, one chair, a guy named Sal who looks like he's been cutting hair since the Reagan administration.
"Just a cleanup," Alex says. "Nothing fancy."
Sal squints at him in the mirror, scissors already moving. "You look familiar. You friends with that Chinese kid? The serious one?"
Alex freezes. "Jian? You know Jian?"
"His dad brings him in sometimes. Real stiff guy, military posture. Doesn't talk much." Sal snips around Alex's ears, thoughtful. "Jian mentioned you. Said you're working on something together. Some kind of... computer thing?"
Alex stares at his own reflection, trying to process this. Jian mentioned him. To his barber. To his father. The scissors snip away, and Alex feels something shift in his chest, some valve opening that he didn't know was closed.
"Yeah," he says finally. "We're building something."
"Good," Sal says, and there's something in his voice, some weight of approval. "That kid needs friends. Been coming here two years, never said more than 'short on the sides' until last month. Now he's got opinions on everything. The fade, the economy, your project." Sal meets Alex's eyes in the mirror. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."