Wheels squeaked and whined, keeping slow tempo with Seymour’s footsteps. The suitcase trailed behind him like an obedient puppy.

“You have what I want,” the caller had said. At first Seymour thought it was a wrong number. What could he possibly have that anyone would want?

He looked up and squinted at the street sign. Half the letters were weathered and chipped making it difficult to tell if he had found the right street corner. The man had said to wait on the park bench at Kennedy Avenue under the bridge at midnight. There weren’t any street lights under the bridge. How convenient.

“You have what I want.” The words played in his head as he nudged his hat down lower and turned up the collar of his down-filled parka. He hated this coat. It was too bulky, especially when he tried getting behind the wheel of his car. But Ruth insisted he needed something warmer.

Grasping the handle tightly, Seymour continued along the sidewalk toward the bridge listening to the steady rhythm of the squeaking wheels. His breath billowed out in frosty puffs and he could feel his eyes tearing from the cold. This was one of the oldest sections of town. Some buildings were boarded up with realtor signs pasted across the doors. Very few people walked the streets in the daylight. Tonight, Seymour’s shadow was the only one cast on this desolate sidewalk. He located the park bench and sat down. His joints creaked and moaned from the effort, none too happy with the icy feel of the wooden slats.

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