“Clara Potts in the tax office said you paid thirty dollars for a duplicate title certificate last month,” I said.

My father adjusted his gold watch band again, the metal clasp clicking against the edge of the table.

“That was to clear up some administrative confusion with the county assessor.”

“Confusion about who owns the land Grandpa Thomas left me?” I asked.

“Grandpa Thomas was eighty-four years old when he died,” my father said.

His voice stayed soft, calculated, and slow.

“He made verbal promises he didn’t have the legal authority to keep.”