I stood up from the vinyl booth.

The familiar ache in my reconstructed right knee throbbed under my weight, but I rested my hand on my knee and kept my back straight.

I looked down at the blue quitclaim deed lying beside my full cup of untouched tea.

I turned and walked out of the diner into the cold night air without touching my tea or signing the paper.

The marble hallway of the Portsmouth Municipal Courthouse smelled of floor wax, wet winter wool, and cold river damp.