My husband had me sentenced to ten years for a two-million-dollar fraud I never committed, and in the courthouse corridor he pulled my grandmother’s ring off my finger and told me to enjoy it. I didn’t argue. I handed a folded piece of paper to the guard.

The lieutenant rang the number himself at eleven forty-nine.

A woman answered on the second ring at Kaszuba Group and asked what it was regarding, and the lieutenant said the words on the paper, which were my full legal name and my date of birth.

He was put through in under a minute.

Osgood told me that the only thing he ever heard about it afterward was that a man in the front office told him he had handled it correctly.

He retired fourteen months later.

I asked him, at that coffee, whether he had ever wondered what would have happened if he had put it in the bin.

And he said, “No, ma’am. I’ve wondered what happens to the ones that aren’t carrying a name I’ve seen on a bus shelter.”