David looked through the truck window at the blue corner, then back at the paper in his hand.

He stood there at the curb, staring at his brother’s handwriting on the forged address line.

He folded the copy along its crease and set it on the kitchen table, one finger still on the forged address line.

“Forty-eight hours,” he said.

“That’s how long the bank has to produce the original if we dispute it in writing.”

I turned my watch band a quarter inch and looked at the clock over the stove.

“Then we go Thursday morning.”