Eleven Years of Eating Lunch by a Window in Columbus, Ohio, Ended With a Box I Never Expected

“The clock starts now.”

Derek laughed, that sharp bark he used when he wanted a room on his side.

“You’re putting the word of a mop bucket against mine.”

“Turn to page one,” I said.

I opened the binder and turned it so the light fell across it.

“March third, 2019.

Charles logged the underwriting bay at six twelve in the morning, four bags out, one of them heavy.

He wrote the word heavy, Derek, because he’s the one who carried it down the stairs.”