A week later, Jenkins—my manager, a decent man who always looks like he’s reading bad news—called me into his office. He handed me a plain envelope with my name on it. No return address.
Inside was a note and a check. I had to read the amount three times: $5,000, made out to me. The note was written in careful script: Thank you for helping our daughter, Emily. You got her home safe. This is a small token of our gratitude. Please join us for lunch Sunday—we’d like to thank you properly. An address followed. The kind of neighborhood you see in real estate flyers.Continue reading…
