George Wilhite

It was a cold day in August, the 31st I think, when I first stumbled upon the tragic story of Harley Wiggins. Working overtime that night, I was searching in the warehouse for file folders, a sheet of bubble wrap held around my shoulders like a shawl to keep out the chill from the early cold front that had blown in just before noon. It had blown in so suddenly that everyone had been caught in shirtsleeves and jacketless.