I wrote my full name on the signature line at the bottom of page four.

“The judge will formally enter the order into the record at two o’clock,” Prosecutor Ellis said.

I got up from the wooden chair and smoothed the front of my skirt.

The August sun was beating down on the black asphalt as Marcus and I walked out through the glass double doors of the Oakland County Courthouse.

My nineteen-year-old white Buick LeSabre was parked in the back row in the shade of two big oaks.

My father was standing by the driver’s door, his right shoulder propped against the rear fender and his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets.