At closing time, exhaustion hit me hard. The sky outside had turned dull and gray. As I swept under one of the lifts, my broom struck something solid.
I bent down and pulled out a black leather wallet, worn soft at the edges from years of use.
When I opened it, my breath caught.
Stacks of hundred-dollar bills were folded neatly inside.
I counted without meaning to. Then stopped.
It was more money than I’d seen in my account in years.
Rent was due in three days. The power company had already sent a warning notice. Brynn’s sneakers had holes straight through the soles. I’d taped cardboard inside them the week before.
My heart pounded.
This money could solve everything—at least for a while.
Then I saw the ID.
An elderly man stared back at me. Gray hair, deep lines, tired eyes. The name read Walter Bennett. Behind it was a folded note with an address and an emergency phone number.
I closed the wallet slowly.
The shop had been crowded all day. Anyone could have lost it. Anyone else could have taken it.
I stood there longer than I’m proud of, arguing with myself.
No one would know.
But I would.
I locked the wallet in my toolbox and finished closing up, my chest tight with the weight of the decision.
At home, the smell of tomato sauce filled the air. My mom stirred a pot while the kids argued over spelling homework.
“Dad!” Jaxon shouted when he saw me.
Brynn hugged my waist. Kieran nearly tackled me.
“You look exhausted,” my mom said softly.
“Long day,” I replied.
That night, after baths and stories and promises about school events, my thoughts stayed on that wallet. On the cash. On the man’s face.
Around nine-thirty, I grabbed my keys.
“I need to step out,” I told my mom.
She studied me, then nodded. “Be careful.”
The address led me to a modest house on the edge of town. A porch light glowed. A TV flickered through the window.
I knocked.
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