A Twenty-Dollar Bill Dropped Into the Dust Beside a Tennessee Highway

He tossed the rag onto the bench.

“I need you to pull the main gate visitor logs from March,” I said.

“Around the ninth in particular.”

Dale cleared his throat with a thick, scraping sound.

“Those old logs go down to basement storage after sixty days,” he said.

“I know that,” I said.

“That’s why I need you to pull them.

Not the front desk.”