Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
“You were the only one who was actually working,” Carter said, adjusting his wedding band. “They were just keeping the seat warm while they emptied the register.”
He turned the page of the ledger, showing the red stamp that marked every transaction as cleared by the regional corporate office.
“Your name is completely off these files now,” Carter said. “The suspension is over, Henry.”
“The suspension,” Henry said, the word hanging in the air between them. “I didn’t know how I was going to pay the storage locker next week.”
“You don’t have to worry about the locker,” Carter said, sliding a small white envelope across the clean counter.
“What’s this?” Henry asked, his fingers hovering over the paper.
“Open it,” Carter said.
Henry took the envelope in his thick fingers, his thumb leaving a faint smudge on the clean white paper.
He did not open it quickly, his movements slow and deliberate as if he were handling a piece of fragile glass.
Inside was a single slip of green paper, a bank draft drawn from the Decatur National Bank, made out directly to St. Jude’s Hospital.
