He walked gingerly, like a man recently recovered from an illness. He kept his eyes on his feet as they slipped and slid across the sanded parking lot, only occasionally glancing at his surroundings. The arrival of a FedEx truck forced him to wait on the far side of the driveway. To steady himself, he put a hand on the trunk of the nearest car. The sheet metal was smooth and cold to the touch. With his other hand, he held his jacket closed across his chest. While he waited for the truck to pass, he looked up at the sky and found a blanket of steel wool sliding across the heavens faster than his sluggish eyes could follow.
He waited until the FedEx truck was out of sight and stepped out into the section of driveway running parallel to the back door. He found it difficult to lift his feet, so he shuffled along, his shoes on the sand sounding something like a train. The curb seemed two feet high. He managed one foot, then the other, paused for a moment to collect his wits and made his way toward the back door.
To the right of the door a blue newspaper dispenser offered morning papers for fifty cents. An elderly gentleman dropped two quarters in the slot and removed a paper. Whatever he was looking for was on the back of the paper. The headline blared: Police Coverup. Byline: Carl Letzo. His equilibrium wavered in the morning breeze. He smiled and reached for the door handle, made his way across the floor.
A blast of warm air rolled out of the building. Still clutching his jacket, he crossed the room, got in line, and waited patiently as the people in front of him conducted their business.
“Sir,” she said. “Sir, can I help you?” And he realized he’d been standing there. That it was his turn and that he’d somehow lost track of where he was in the line.
He stepped up to the counter.
“Can I help you?” she said again.
He pulled the note from his coat pocket and slid it through the slot. Her eyes were locked on his face.
“I know you,” she said with a smile. “You’re Frank Corso,” she said. “I just love your books.”
In response, he dropped his hand and allowed his jacket to fall open. Her eyes dropped to his chest and the numbered keypad, then back up to the steel necklace holding it in place, then finally to the block-printed note that lay on the counter before her. Their eyes met.
“Please,” he said.