The diner on Oak Street smelled of scorched coffee and bacon grease, and Toby slept in his car seat while I spread the blue folder open on the table.

The first sheet was a bank notice, thin as onion skin, and the balance line said zero dollars and zero cents.

I read it four times over.

I flipped it, as if the back might say something else.

It didn’t.

I dug through the folder for the original land trust deed.

It was there, folded in thirds, the paper gone soft along the creases from being opened and shut so many times.

The transfer receipts were clipped to the back of it.