“I threw it in the trash with the junk mail,” she said, her eyes dropping to her mug. “It was a loser anyway.”
I looked at the counter where the blue pen usually sat, but it was gone.
The next morning, I walked down to the Elm Street gas station to buy a quart of milk. The damp autumn air smelled of old motor oil and wet asphalt.
Wayne, the cashier with the neat mustache, was sweeping the front walk when I arrived. He leaned on his broom as I came down the steps.
“Your daughter’s boyfriend was in here late last night,” Wayne said.
I stopped, holding the heavy plastic jug of milk against my coat. “Ryan was here?”
“He bought three cartons of premium cigarettes and paid with a fifty-dollar bill,” Wayne said. He spat onto the gravel. “He was telling the night guy that his luck had finally turned. Something about a five-figure score.”
A coldness started at the back of my neck. “Ryan does not have fifty dollars, Wayne.”
“Well, he had a pocketful of them last night,” Wayne said, turning back to his broom.
