Three Decades of Pretending Come to an End in a Military Holding Cell

Arthur clicked his mouse twice.

His printer whirred to life.

He pushed a single printed page across the desk.

I filled in my account numbers.

I wrote my real signature at the bottom.

I slid the paper back across to him.

“The money will be in your escrow account by the close of business,” I said.

I left the office and walked two doors down the strip mall to a little coffee shop.