Gloves
Booker was a smart man. He may have some memory problems, and you know, his mind filling in gaps from the past, but other than that, and of course that he sold his daughter who he had at the age of eighteen, Booker DeWitt was a smart man. So, of course, when he stumbled on those signs, shouting, screaming at everybody who passed it to kill the man with A.D. on the back of his hand, he decided to stop, and find a glove shop. That is exactly what he did.
"Hello there, sir!" The cashier exclaimed, as Booker opened the door, his right hand in his pocket.
"Hey, so, do you sell gloves?" Booker asked,
"Of course, right over here!" The cashier said, gesturing to the wall to the right of Booker.
"Thanks," Booker said, hand still in his pocket.
The store was nice, a hardwood floor, well lit, clothes, vests, shirts, and suits on the right wall, just left of the door, and accessories on the right wall. The desk was about eight feet from the door, and some shelves standing boldly between the door and the desk, where the cashier was.
Booker casually walked over to the right wall, and picked up some nice, leather gloves, black, and they were quite comfortable. He took them to the cashier, and handed it to him with his left hand.
"That will be twenty silver eagles, please." The cashier said.
Having just come from the fair, Booker had a few left over, and was just enough to pay for the gloves, so he handed it over.
"Thank you sir, have a nice day."
"Yeah." Booker replied.
And then he left, nice, comfy gloves on his hand, into the streets. It was actually a little chilly out, so it wouldn't be abnormal that he would wear gloves. 'Good', he thought to himself when he realized this. He then strolled up to monument tower, and stole away Elizabeth. He then returned her to New York, and lived out the rest of his life alcohol free.
The End