He looked too young to belong there. Maybe twenty-five. His posture was stiff, his eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds as if he had been waiting for something he wasn’t sure would happen. In his hands, he held a small envelope, gripping it tightly enough that the edges had begun to bend.
The moment he saw me, he stood up.
“Ma’am,” he said, his voice unsteady, “are you Helen?”
Something in his tone made my chest tighten.
“Yes,” I replied carefully. “Can I help you?”
He hesitated for only a second, then stepped forward and held out the envelope with both hands, like it carried more weight than paper should.
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