Returned

Under today's weather, in the Log, there is a slip of cream stock pressed flat. Fog. Wind from the northeast. And one line, in blue ink, in the hand you use when you are hurrying and wish to be seen not hurrying.

Nobody here can place anything. That is the job.

In the corner, where a postmark would go, there is the horn with the plug in its bell, drawn small in the same blue.

The slip is warm on one side.