I picked up the deed copy and held it close under the lamp, the way I read the data plate on a compressor.

The blue ink of my aunt’s name showed through on the back of the page, sitting on top of the printed lines, never pressed down hard.

At eight the next morning I had the deed copy squared under the counter mat and Rosa waiting for an answer on a compressor quote.

“Forty-five thousand,” she said.

“They want it in writing by Friday or they’re going with Kessler.”

Rosa had handled my dispatch board since the day the shop opened.