Arthur broke off another corner of his buttermilk biscuit and tapped it against the edge of the diner booth. A large white duck sat right there on the green vinyl, its yellow bill clicking against the plate as it swallowed.
“The health inspector comes in at eight-thirty, Arthur,” I said.
I took a slow sip of my coffee, which still cost two dollars at the register but tasted mostly of paper cups and tap water. Arthur did not look up, but he tipped his faded canvas cap toward me.
“She is a tidy girl, Robert,” Arthur said, with a cheerful, deliberate whistle between his words. “She has her own napkin.”
I looked at the cuffs of Arthur’s flannel shirt. They were frayed to the blue threads, hanging loose around wrists that looked much thinner than they had when he still worked the south acreage.
He pulled a silver pocket watch from his vest, the old case dull from years of pocket lint. It was the one his wife, Sarah, had bought him for their thirtieth wedding anniversary, back when the farm was still sending three trucks of corn to the county line every autumn.
“The town council has an ordinance about livestock indoors,” I said. “Even clean ones.”
“Ordinances are for people with too much pavement,” Arthur whispered.
He slid the watch back into his pocket, his hand lingering on the worn fabric. A quiet sort of gray shadow passed over his face, the kind I had been seeing more often since the funeral last spring.
The lemon wax smell in the station lobby always got stronger by mid-morning when the sun hit the front windows. David, our new deputy, was standing by the high counter with a blue clipboard in his hand.
“We have a code four-twelve in progress on Main Street, Officer,” David said, his voice loud enough to rattle the mailboxes across the street. He gripped his heavy leather utility belt and pulled it up an inch.
“Speak English, David,” I said, rubbing my left shoulder. It had been stiff since the rain on Tuesday.
