My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
I finished polishing the watch, buckled the silver strap back around my left wrist, and stood up to look out at the county road.
I needed to return to the courthouse one last time to pick up the certified copies of the dismissal forms from the clerk’s office before they closed for the winter storm.
The drive back into town took twenty minutes through the gathering flurries of dry snow. By the time I parked in the courthouse lot, the streetlights were turning on, casting long, pale cones of light across the concrete plaza.
The administrative office on the second floor was empty except for a young clerk who handed me the manila envelope without speaking.
I walked back down the wide stone staircase and out through the heavy bronze doors.
At the far end of the parking lot, near the snowbank piled up by the county graders, a black sedan was backed into a space, its exhaust rising in a thick, white plume against the dark brick wall of the sheriff’s annex.
