People tell the stories.

Numbers only reveal which of the stories are lies.

Jonathan built a beautiful one, about a grieving brother and a drowned sister and a quiet, forgetful bride, and he locked every door he could find to keep anyone from totaling it.

But a locked door is only ever a redacted line, and a redaction is not an answer.

It is a confession that an answer exists.

I added up the columns he was so sure no one would ever add, and when the sum came clear I did not keep it to myself.

The ledger is clear now, and the woman he buried on paper is alive and free, and I am finally, entirely, on my own.