“What is it you want.”

“Tomorrow.” He squared the page against the edge of the desk and laid the proxy page next to it, Charles’s signature at the bottom above the notary’s stamp.

“Filed before eight,” he said, “or the notice doesn’t count.”

“Then go ahead and file it tonight.”

He picked up the phone and called the board secretary at home.

I set the binder on the corner of his desk where the lamp could reach it and evened the edges with the heel of my hand.

Charles had spent eleven years keeping quiet, and I had thirty-one pages of it laid out in order.