29
As I pull alongside the curb, I spy a human sitting on my steps. A human shaped like a food critic. In his lap, he holds a box.
“Holden?”
“Hiya.” He stands and places the box on the stair.
“What are you doing here?” It’s only twelve thirty. He should be at work.
“Brant Cole closed the paper.”
“What?”
“He just shut the whole thing down today. Everyone got pink slips.” He digs into his corduroys and pulls out a folded memo—sure enough, on pink paper. “‘The Rose City Register is to cease operations as of 5 p.m. … Retrieve any personal effects from the office environment by close of business today.’”
“Holden. Wow. I’m so sorry.”
“Easy come, easy go. I left early. What’s the point in staying? Everyone’s depressed and crying. And I can’t get hold of Gretchen, so I brought her stuff.
