Sheldon looked at me for a moment. He nodded slowly and went back into his office.
Then, one Friday afternoon in May, Sheldon called me into his office.
It was nearly five. I was sweeping. He leaned out of his office door and waved me over.
“Brent. Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
I leaned the broom against a shelf and went in. His office was small and cluttered. Invoices in piles. A dying plant on the windowsill. A framed photo on the desk of a woman with dark curly hair, laughing at the camera. That was Georgia’s mom, Lauren. She died of breast cancer when Georgia was twelve. Sheldon never talked about her, but the photo had been on his desk daily since I started. ShopChairs
Next to it was another photo. Georgia at about ten, missing two front teeth, holding up a fish almost as big as she was.
