Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

the old panic creep back into my throat. “I am asking you for three days, Donald. Hold the pen until Friday noon.”

Donald looked down at the paper on his lap, his thumb rubbing the heavy blue seal at the bottom of the page. “Why?”

“Because there are things about the delivery orders you haven’t seen,” I said.

He did not look up, but his hand went still continue reading …