Naumann slits an envelope to a blank both sides page of paper holding in its folds the surprise of a clean crisp one hundred dollar note. An overlooked thin letter? A tucked-away tiny card? The empty envelope bears his name and address in computer-generated typeface on a stuck-on label, nothing more, nothing else. Where posted? When? The stamp says local. Posted yesterday. A fan! says his wife. Naumann is a non-best-selling writer. This wife, his second, does kindergarten work. Every bit helps. Let’s go out! she says, as Naumann, who loves her dearly and all the rest of it, knew…

Subscribe to get access to all online articles