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The Donation
The Donation
The Donation
Ebook33 pages22 minutes

The Donation

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On a busy street corner in the searing heat of a Sacramento July afternoon, homeless veteran Gene Garron makes a seemingly simple promise in exchange for a donation beyond his wildest dreams.

But a large sum of money attracts a great deal of attention.

The wrong kind of attention.

Attention that can make even the simplest promise hard to keep.

A short story from Dale Hartley Emery.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateAug 11, 2015
ISBN9781632610171
The Donation
Author

Dale Hartley Emery

Dale Hartley Emery writes fiction in a variety of genres, including fantasy, crime fiction, and mainstream fiction. His stories include Inventory, Marmalade, and The Donation. Dale has worked as a failed shoemaker, reluctant dairy farmer, and ruthless ice cream man. For several years he monitored the nuclear test ban treaty, making sure those pesky commies didn't blow up the planet. (They didn't.) When he isn't writing, Dale advises software teams and leaders about how to play nice together. Colleagues in Dale's industry once created a special award for him for being reasonable. Dale lives in California with his wife.

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    Book preview

    The Donation - Dale Hartley Emery

    THE DONATION

    Dale Hartley Emery

    Driscoll Brook Press

    © 2015 Dale Hartley Emery

    Copyright Information

    Contents

    Title Page

    Howe and Arden

    The Powder Blue Eight-Pack

    Slushies

    Change

    Evidence

    About the Author

    Connect with the Author

    Books by the Author

    Copyright Information

    Howe and Arden

    Gene Garron tried to swallow and failed. His mouth and tongue and throat were sticky. He had drunk his fill of water from the faucet in the Save Fast restroom no more than an hour ago. But according to the thermometer on the Delta Bank marquee, the temperature here at the corner of Howe and Arden was 108 degrees. Hot even for Sacramento. The shallow concrete-and-red-brick median where he stood offered no relief. The only shade was from his lucky Tilley hat. Heat radiated up from the blacktop.

    The Tilley had been greasy and battered and torn even when he had found it five months earlier, blown against a highway embankment near McKinley Park. But in the chilly February drizzle he had muttered to himself, I need a damned hat. And there, half submerged in a shallow puddle at the bottom of the grassy embankment, was a gray, plaid, cotton Tilley, ratty and wet and smelling like the grease from some other man’s head. But it was a hat, just when he needed one. Lucky.

    Now the mid-afternoon July sun stung as it beat down on Gene’s sunburned, peeling arms. He’d sold his only long-sleeved shirt a week earlier for three dollars. Hell of a good trade, he’d thought at the time. Maybe that had been a mistake. And maybe he should wear gloves, though when he imagined himself holding up his sign in a thick pair of canvas work gloves, imagined his fingers sweating inside the gloves for hours on end, he thought maybe gloves would not be such a good idea after all.

    And

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