Golden Honey Jars on a Sunny Counter in Sweetwater

under his arm, his boots leaving dry clay spots on the green linoleum.

He did not look at the corners of the room, heading straight for my desk with a grin that did not reach his eyes.

“Look at this, partner,” he said, sliding a green paper slip across the wood.

I did not touch it at first, watching how the morning sun caught the bank’s watermark.