For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke
I opened the top drawer of my wooden desk.
I placed the carbon check slip inside, resting it flat on a stack of old store ledgers.
I pushed the heavy drawer shut and turned the small metal key.
The lock clicked firmly into place, echoing in the quiet room.
I set the thick blue binder of store accounts on the break room table.
The coffee machine hissed and sputtered behind me.
It was exactly eight in the morning.
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