“My name is Harlan Pennington,” he said. “I represent the estate of a man named Samuel Crane. He spent the last two decades of his life trying to find you.”
The name went through me like a current.
“He asked that this be delivered to you personally, and to no one else,” Mr. Pennington said. “He left very specific instructions.”
My hands were shaking the way a man’s hands shook under an awning twenty-seven years ago.
“Samuel,” I whispered. “I met him once. For thirty seconds. In the rain.”
Mr. Pennington’s face did something complicated.
“Ms. Reyes,” he said gently, “you met him for a great deal longer than that. You just never knew.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
I reached for the ribbon.
The lid lifted with a soft creak.
And there, resting on top, folded carefully inside a yellowed square of wax paper, was a ten-dollar bill.
