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

“Which tote was it?”

“Number fourteen.”

He pulled the black notebook out of his shirt pocket, worked the rubber band off with his thumb, and wrote.

Time of day.

Tote number.

Thirty-one.

He held the pencil there a moment longer and added a line I couldn’t read upside down.

“What does the last folder in the stack look like?”