For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke

“You’re right on time, Arthur,” Howard said.

He spoke in a low, gravelly monotone, keeping his voice under the echo of the tiled room.

Howard opened a thick manila folder on his lap.

The edges of the cardboard were frayed from years in the basement archives.

“October 14, 2017,” Howard said.

“Highway 24.

I pulled the original traffic division file.”

I looked at the heavy stack of paper.