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One piece of paper

Amalia came by the hotel. “I was over at Harold’s,” she said. “Dawn wanted me to give you this.”

She handed me a piece of paper, folded up.

“I don’t blame you for feeling I let you down,” she had written, her handwriting a barely legible scrawl. “But I want so much to talk with you. Even if it’s just one time.”

I sent a note back to Dawn, in care of Amalia. “Come to the hotel tomorrow afternoon.”