I pulled the first box out and taped the bottom seams with a roll of heavy packing tape.

I began wrapping my plates in sheets of newspaper, stacking them one by one.

The attorney, Richard Miller, sat behind a wide mahogany desk that smelled of lemon oil and old paper.

He adjusted a stack of yellow legal pads, his silver hair catching the morning light from the high window.

“We need to begin with the timeline of the demands, Mara,” Richard said, his pen hovering over the first blank page.

“My mother sat across from me in the diner on Saturday morning,” I said, keeping my hands flat on my lap.