His phone lit up on the counter, face down, buzzing twice and then going dark.

He didn’t flip it over.

“Just drink your coffee,” he said.

The probate court opened its doors at nine.

Helen had worked the records window there since before my father ever bought his first building.

I handed her the docket number and my license.

She typed with one finger and took her time.

“The estate’s open,” she said.