Eight Thousand Gallons of Milk and a Small Blue Ledger

Diner was cold against my back. The small room smelled of onions, griddle grease, and five-dollar diner coffee that tasted of chicory and paper filters.

Harold sat across from me, his hands liver-spotted and heavy on the formica table. He wore his old wool hunting jacket, the collar frayed around the edges where the thread had come continue reading …