Eleven Years of Eating Lunch by a Window in Columbus, Ohio, Ended With a Box I Never Expected
“Blank tab.
No stamp.
Dust along the edge, like it’s been sitting somewhere for a long time.”
He wrote that down as well.
“Paper leaves a paper trail,” he said.
“Even when it’s ash.
The county keeps a copy of every pickup manifest, and the hauler leaves a carbon on the cart for the building.”
“Since when do you know anything about haulers?”
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