“Eleven years of history classes, and I never taught a unit on what to do when it’s your own brother.”

“You’re doing it,” I said.

“You’re standing in it.”

The screen door creaked.

Martha came back out with Carl’s folder in both hands and carried it past us to the dining room.

She opened the flap, drew out the deed, and laid it flat on the table under the lamp.

She smoothed it with both palms.

“There,” she said.