A White Mercedes Pulled Up to Gate Six on a Tuesday Afternoon Without a Permit

You have to write it down.

Time, item, your initials.”

He wrote it.

His letters were rounder than mine.

Then he lifted the clipboard off its hook and held it against his chest a second before he signed for it.

“Sergeant, I still have the little book.” He said it quietly, watching the road.

“The one you told me to keep in my cargo pocket.”

“Keep it in the pocket.