I stopped at the light on Seventh Street and sat through two green lights in a row, my hands slack on the wheel.

Helen stood at the stove when I walked in.

She’d made chicken and rice and set two plates out on the counter, since the kitchen table was buried under papers.

“You look a lot better than you did this morning,” she said.

“I paid him.

Every bit of it.” I sat down on the stool.

“And he showed me what Walter left.”

Helen switched off the burner and came around to sit next to me.