The supervisor slid a piece of paper across the desk. It was a handwritten note, scanned and forwarded from a nursing home. It read: "Thank you for the two hundred dollars. I bought a bus ticket. I'm going to visit his grave for the first time. You gave me back my legs."
"Certainly. Can I have the 16-digit card number, please?" prepaid cards enquiry
The old man was quiet. Then a wet, broken sound. A thank you. A goodbye. The line went dead. The supervisor slid a piece of paper across the desk
Marta braced herself.
Marta softened. She glanced at her supervisor, who was pacing the aisle with a clipboard, mouthing "wrap it up." I bought a bus ticket
She clicked answer.
The old man on the other end fumbled. She heard a drawer open, the rustle of envelopes, a sigh. "It's not... I don't have it in front of me. My son gave it to me. For the trip."