“What are you going to do?” she asked.

I didn’t have an answer for her, and the wind took the top page, and she caught it against her knee.

She walked to a beige sedan with a dented front fender and pulled out without looking back at me.

The dent was low on the passenger side, the kind you get in a parking garage.

I sat in my car with the engine off, the envelope on my lap, and the doors locked.

My phone buzzed against my hip.