Today was different.
Today he had brought the envelope.
As the line inched forward, Caleb reached into his canvas bag and touched the thick white envelope inside. It was soft from being handled so often, its edges curled and wrinkled. Inside were two years of effort — birthday money he never spent, ten-dollar bills earned from shoveling snow in winter, crumpled singles from mowing small patches of grass behind apartment buildings, coins collected from recycling cans in public parks after Little League games.
Two years of saying no to ice cream trucks, video games, and movie tickets.
When it was finally his turn, the shop owner barely looked up at first.
His name was Mr. Leonard Briggs, a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with reading glasses perched at the edge of his nose. He had run the shop for over twenty-five years and had learned to measure people quickly — who was serious, who was wasting time, who might try to negotiate beyond reason.
“What do you need?” Mr. Briggs asked, tapping a pen against the counter.
Caleb swallowed.
“The red guitar,” he said quietly. “How much is it?”
Mr. Briggs glanced at the tag.
