rushed out after us. She was breathing slightly heavily, her cheeks pink from the sudden sprint. She leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes reflecting the streetlights. “Sir,” she whispered, her voice a low, confidential confession. “I lied.”
Before I could form a question, she pressed a folded piece of paper—a receipt—into my hand and, with a quick, nearly imperceptible movement, turned and hurried back through the revolving doors. Confused, I unfolded the slip of paper. It was our original receipt. The total amount was circled, and next to it, scrawled in
