Steve is in the process of talking to a dark-haired woman holding a little boy in some kind of snowsuit. She looks deeply stressed, but unharmed otherwise. The toddler is quiet, wide-eyed but with a smile that appears intermittently. Even in the chaos, there is some innocence.

Steve turns at the hail and smiles a little, excusing himself with a murmur to the woman, and lopes a couple steps to meet them. "Hey," he greets, and even with a hat pulled mostly over his face, the man strikes him as a little bit familiar. But he's not asking yet.

"Steve Rogers," he says, and offers a hand. He's not going to question whether the stranger can see through his beanie. Why would you wear something you couldn't see through, anyway? "I guess we can use all the help we can get."