PICKLES

The sky over Alton Baker Park was dull gray. Not quite ominous, not quite clearing. Just there—background noise for people pretending not to unravel in public. A skateboard clacked somewhere out of sight. The breeze off the river carried the scent of wet bark and distant lawnmower fumes.

Early spring in Eugene, Oregon, meant everything was technically alive—but still looked hungover.

Reed Thatcher stood near a picnic bench that looked like it had last been sealed during the Clinton administration. He adjusted the strap of his worn leather messenger bag and scanned the path for signs of incoming doom. Or, more accurately, the Mark.

This one was named Tina.

She arrived like someone who already regretted saying yes to the meeting. Straight-backed, unsmiling, moving fast in that ‘I have somewhere else to be’ way that meant this mattered too much. Mid-twenties, dark ponytail, expression like a padlocked gate.

“You’re … Jason’s friend?” It almost sounded like an accusation.

Her voice did that thing where it tried to be casual but tripped on the word friend like it didn’t belong there.

Reed nodded, hands calmly tucked in the pockets of his jacket. Neutral colors. Layered. Business-casual if the business was grief management.

“He asked me to meet you,” he said. “Said he wanted to give you something. Couldn’t make it himself.”

He didn’t elaborate. He never did. The more words people used, the more they bled.

Tina’s eyes narrowed. She stayed exactly five feet away—close enough to spit, far enough to sprint.

“What is it?”

Reed pulled a small padded envelope from his bag and held it out like a peace offering. She didn’t take it. Just stared at it like it might bite.

“Wait,” she said. “He’s not even here?”

“Sorry,” Reed gave a slight, practiced smile. “I’m the in-person option.”

It landed exactly the way it was supposed to: poorly.

Tina took the envelope, opened it with careful resentment, and unfolded the single typed page. Her eyes scanned quickly.

Her gaze flicked up at Reed, then down at the page. She read it again. Slower. Then just stood there. Staring at the paper.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she slowly refolded the page. It went back into the envelope with more precision than it deserved.

“Wow,” she said. No inflection.

Reed said nothing.

“He could’ve texted me,” she added. “Or called. Or ghosted. Honestly, ghosting would’ve been nicer.”

Still, Reed said nothing. He wasn’t here to argue. He delivered emotional endings. Like a breakup courier—only worse.

He wanted to say it wasn’t his idea—but that sounded like weakness.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, because the silence was getting loud.

She nodded once. Not at him—just at the situation, as if confirming the world worked exactly how she feared.

Then she walked away without looking back.

Reed stood there for another ten seconds. Then, he pulled out the burner phone. Cracked screen. Clients saved as vague phrases—“Yoga Ghoster,” “Tuesday 3 PM,” “Do Not Call Again.”

He typed with one thumb. “Delivered.” Tina got into a compact car. She hadn’t cried. He looked down at the phone again. “No escalation.”

The wind briefly gusted, sending a flyer from the bench into a puddle—except it didn’t quite make it. It slapped against Reed’s shoe instead and stuck there, soggy and determined, like the park had chosen him for a cause.

He tried to flick it off. It clung harder. He bent, pinched a corner, and it tore—half the flyer coming free, the other half staying married to his sole.

For the next ten steps it made a wet, applauding sound against the pavement. A jogger passed, looked down at it, then up at Reed, and sped up like she’d just witnessed a man losing custody of his dignity.

The phone buzzed again.

$750 from “JasonH77.”

Memo: I appreciate your discretion.

Reed didn’t reply.

Some things didn’t require closure.