Forty-One Thousand Dollars and a Yellow Paper Envelope
“Dustin.
Whose name is on the signature card?”
He put his hand on the car door and didn’t open it.
His jaw worked twice.
The blinds were up along the back of the conference room, and through the glass I could see Brenda at the head of the table with her pen already lying in front of her.
He hit the roof of the car once with the flat of his hand, then bent down and looked in at the duffel through the window.
“You’re down three runs in the ninth,” he said, and it came out thin, nothing like the way he used to say it.
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