“Hey, Cookie Jar, git yurself back here.”
I sigh and turn around. The pavement is cracked and dusty and the temperature has soared into the upper reaches of heat stroke. I’m two steps past a bad attitude.
Several houses back, a middle-aged man waves a letter in the air. I set the mail pouch on the ground and crack open a bottle of water. Tired of retracing my steps, I wait.
After a moment, he gives up and lumbers over. “Mr. Post Office General, Sir.”
I’m wearing a skirt, culottes to be precise, but whatever.
“Listen here little girl.” His lower lip curls around a pinch of snuff. “You got to stop bringing me the wrong mail. These people don’t live at my house.”
Recognizing the letter clutched in his fist, I fight to clear my throat. “Um, Resident?”
“Yep, that’s right.” He thrusts the letter under my nose. “And don’t be bringing any more for that other fella, occu, occu . . .”
“Yeah, now you just do your job and don’t be sassin the people who pay your salary.”
“Yes sir.” I pluck the letter from his fingers. “I’ll do my best.”