At ten o’clock Saturday morning I took the crumpled receipt to the diner and laid it flat on the Formica table beside Ben’s coffee cup.

Ben wiped a bit of fried egg off his paper napkin first, then picked the slip up with the tips of his thumb and index finger.

He squinted at the faded blue thermal ink, reading the salon name and the two-hundred-dollar balance.

Then he pushed his glasses up by the bridge with one finger.

“That’s Tasha’s signature right there on the line,” I said.

“Dated three days ago.”