Based on your own experiences and observations, which two phrases should be considered when predicting what Paul will do? Unexpected Visitor by T. Herlinger Clad in a t-shirt and trousers, Paul was already sweating profusely by 11 a. m., wheeling a metal rack of suits through the sea of pedestrians. Pushing racks of clothes around New York City's garment district wasn't exactly a dream job, but Paul wasn't complaining. He had worked in his father's restaurant every summer since he was eight years old, and now finally, at 15, he had landed a real job. On most mornings, he let the throngs of people become a blur around him as he steered the heavy rack of swinging suits down the sidewalk, careful not to run over any toes. But today, he happened to glance up and spy a familiar face. There at the street corner stood Paul's father, looking oddly small and frail amid the rushing people. Paul cringed with embarrassment as he approached his father, who was standing in his gray business suit, baking in the August heat. He eyed his dad suspiciously, wishing he were an apparition. Myriad feelings were welling, but mostly Paul felt exasperated and furious—his dad was trespassing on his territory. Maybe he meant to convince Paul to come back and work in the restaurant, but there was no way he was going to give up his newfound independence. Then Paul had a frightening thought—maybe there was an emergency at home! "What's going on?" he demanded without saying hello. "Is Mom in the hospital? Is the restaurant okay?" "No, everything's perfect—your mom's fine, the restaurant's fine," Paul's father assured him. "I just wanted to witness my son in action," he declared proudly, his eyes beaming. "You're a real working man with a legitimate profession, so I thought I'd treat you to an expensive lunch. Maybe a Reuben sandwich or some pastrami? Or something more extravagant!" "I can't, Dad" Paul answered automatically, "I mean, my lunch break isn't until noon, and that's over an hour from now." "That doesn't matter," his father responded easily, shrugging his shoulders, "I'll just read my paper at that delicatessen across the street." He gestured at a red awning with a sign advertising a lunch special. "Come meet me there when you're ready!" With that, he reached up and ruffled Paul's hair, grinned at him, and started off across the street. Paul quickly turned away, wracked with embarrassment and guilt. He ducked his head, hiding from the New York crowd of pedestrians, and wheeled the rack of clothes down the sidewalk in the other direction.