The phone rings in the front office. Two weeks ago our receptionist had gotten her fill of Red Valley and moved out, so Ernie and I have been taking turns answering it. I’m only going through paperwork; the door to my office is open and the phone’s maybe twelve feet from me. But it’s Tuesday, so it’s his turn. Ernie lumbers over, sagging under the weight of the heat. He takes each step like burdened Atlas, but lifts the receiver like it’s a glass of scotch.
“Y’lo?” Ernie says. “Red Valley police.”
— Full story available over at The Assortment —
