I circled the difference lightly in pencil.
A month earlier, I might have laughed at how small the problem was.
After March 9, White House gates, family photographs, recusal forms, and twenty-six years of silence, one incorrect date felt almost peaceful.
My phone lit.
Not Arthur.
Trevor.
A photograph this time.
His car.
New tires.
Caption:
Finally replaced them. You were right.
I smiled.
Then typed:
About time.
He sent back:
Do not start.
I put the phone facedown.
On the shelf behind me was a cardboard box containing my old office hardware.