Sliding an elongated index finger into the crevice of the envelope, he pulled slightly, straining the seams until the paper ripped upwards into crude fragments, spoiled. Reid pulled out a neatly folded note, fragrant with the faint scent of oranges and incense.

He slowly unfolded the creased edges, the slippery lamination of a metro card slipped through the fold and landed at between the rows of keys on his typewriter. Reid ignored it, pulling the note close to read the inscription.

Reid squinted as he read the small, awkward handwriting.

Mr. Thurston,

I seemed to have found your notebook on the 11:15 AM bus

two days previously. I would like to return it to you in person

because the postal system is sometimes faulty and morally

corrupt. I leave you with your metro card, which was wedged

inside of the notebook. It was helpful to me in finding your address

and you may need it to take the bus anytime soon. I will be at

Mac’s Pub at 12:00 PM on Saturday.

Don’t Forget