Six Sisters and the Blue Ledger on Oak Street

air hitting my face like a damp towel. Gene was waiting by my sedan, her dark wool coat buttoned up to her chin to protect against the dampness.

“How did they take it?” Gene asked, her voice flat and factual as she adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses.

“They think I am forgetful,” I said, reaching into my purse to touch the cold paper of the loan document continue reading …