Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

desk and tapped his index finger against a pale yellow folder.

“The fifteen of November is a hard boundary, Martha,” Greg said.

“I have eighteen days,” I said, my thumb pressing hard against my index finger to feel the ridges of my skin.

“You have until noon today to stop the automatic filing,” he said, turning the folder to face me. “The holding company continue reading …