“I handle all her legal and tax paperwork now,” Wade said, tapping the corner of the brown folder against his wrist.

“She had these drawn up three days ago, and she signed her part in black ink while the doctors were still running her blood tests.”

“What are those papers?” I asked.

“A draft marriage application,” Wade said, adjusting his glasses again as he held the folder out over the cold hood of my car.

“My mother wants to marry you before the end of the month.”

I took the thick folder in both hands, the paper cold against my fingers under the dim yellow light of the parking lot lamp.