The Photograph of a Newborn in a Yellow Knitted Hat

I didn’t go in to turn on the lamps.

I backed the Buick out and headed for Route 28 and Arthur’s office.

The neon sign in Arthur’s storefront sputtered in the dark, humming against the glass.

Inside, the green banker’s lamp lit the desk blotter.

The brass bell jangled when I pushed the door open.

The room smelled of old paper files, damp wool, and floor wax.

Arthur sat behind his desk in his cardigan, a half-empty roll of cherry peppermints by his elbow.

“Megan,” Arthur said, looking over his reading glasses.