A Stranger Left an Envelope Beside My Bed on My Sixty-Second Birthday—Then I Found His Photograph with My Son

On the back, someone had written an address: 48 West Market Street.

Beneath it was a time, twelve noon.

The old warehouse by the shipping canal.

I checked the clock.

It was past ten.

A week earlier, I might have gone.

I might have believed that following the instructions on a piece of paper was the shortest route to an answer.

Now I put the photograph on the table.