I told him you’d been licensed in a ring.”

“Deb.”

“I was polite about it.”

By two that afternoon the folder was on my kitchen table at home, and David was in the backyard talking to a piece of lumber.

The bench was upside down on the grass with a level across its seat, and he had a pencil behind his ear that he had forgotten about.

“Left corner’s proud by a hair,” he said.

“You’ve said that three times.”