"Everything," Winston replied.

The director laughed, a nervous, patronizing sound. "This is exactly what I warned you about, Hudson. He's confused. He keeps rambling about paperwork."

Hudson slowly turned his head toward the director. "Did her address change?"

The director hesitated. It was only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. "I... I do not manage postal records."

"No," Winston interrupted, stepping closer to the edge of the porch. "But somebody filed a forwarding request." Rainwater dripped from the roof as Winston delivered the final blow. "And I know, because I spent 37 years protecting people's mail in this county."

A heavy hush fell over the crowd. A few riders lowered their heads, recognizing the truth in the old man's words. Everyone in the county knew Winston. He had delivered letters through blizzards, floods, and blistering harvests. He was stubborn and fiercely private, but dishonest was not a word anyone associated with him.

Sensing the shift in the crowd, the director panicked. "This is irrelevant! Margaret needs treatment!"

Winston finally locked eyes with the fraud. "Then why does her emergency contact form contain a phone number that belongs to nobody in her family?"

Dead silence followed. The director's expression faltered, the mask slipping for less than a heartbeat.

Winston noticed it. Hudson noticed it, too.

Hudson slowly turned his back to the house and took a step toward the man in the expensive rain jacket. Suddenly, the sixty Patriot Riders weren't there for the old mailman anymore.