More money than I’d seen in my bank account in years.
For a second my brain started running numbers.
Rent.
Electric bill.
New shoes for the kids.
Groceries.
That money could fix a lot of problems.
At least for a little while.
Then I saw the ID.
An elderly man. Late seventies.
Gary.
Tucked inside the wallet was also a small handwritten note with a phone number and an address.
My chest tightened.
I closed the wallet and locked it inside my toolbox.
Even finishing my shift felt strange after
