The waiver rode in my bag against my hip, folded in thirds.

“Thursday, then,” she said.

“Two o’clock.

Wear something nice.”

She went down the steps to her car, and the tape measure clicked against her keys the whole way.

Marcus came at seven with two sandwiches and a putty knife.

He set the food on the desk and knelt on the rug in his good slacks.

“The bottom drawer has been stuck since summer,” I said.