I turned the folder over and wrote on the back of my own hand, 07-4416, 3:05, and under that, 402, because my desk faced the hallway, and the hallway door didn’t always latch.

At six the cleaning cart rolled past with a squeaky wheel, and I didn’t look up.

The retention schedule was laminated and screwed to the wall of the file room, and it said seven years for a closed claim.

Derek had the gray tote pulled out from behind the shelving before I had even taken my coat off.

Thirty folders stood in it, tabs up, every one stamped with the same month, five years earlier.

“These go into the shredder this morning,” he said.