By seven forty I had the bank audit notice in a sleeve, the 2006 date circled in pencil, and the canceled checks lined up by month.

The notice had a faint crease across the middle, the kind you get from riding around in a wallet.

The blue trust ledger sat beside the binders in its own clear bag.

It was too thick for a sleeve.

I didn’t open it.

I’d wiped the cover with a dry rag the night before.

The pages still smelled like the cab of Ray’s truck.

At seven fifty the dispatcher called about a rooftop unit at the school.