A White Mercedes Pulled Up to Gate Six on a Tuesday Afternoon Without a Permit
Nobody looks in a boot.”
We spread the pink slips out and matched them against Dewitt’s notebook, line for line, tag for tag.
Then I stopped on one.
August twelfth.
Times filled in.
The gate stamp square in the corner.
And beside it a second impression, smaller, the garrison clerk’s receiving stamp with the initials R.
M. set in the circle.
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