The subdivision newsletter and an ED medicine brochure both missed the trash.
Barry Harper shook his head. His whole day had been like that.
When he picked up the newsletter to re-wad it and try again to hit the hallway trashcan, he saw an old picture of Molly McHugh, probably from before he ever met her.
In one of the haphazard folds from his wadding, he saw the dash and the year. 2022.
It didn’t take a genius.
Barry hung his head, walked to the kitchen, unwadded the newsletter.
94.
Helluva run, nice lady.
He skimmed the obituary, was about to toss the newsletter again, when he saw the note on the bottom.
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