“Did Uncle John move his workshop down to Westfall?”

Bob grabbed the pink slip off the blotter before my thumb reached the corner.

He folded it in half twice into a tight little square and stuffed it deep into his shirt pocket.

“That was a special commercial order for a farm down the county,” he said, his voice climbing half a note higher than normal.

“I’ve got forty contractor bills to settle before noon.”

“Bob, Maple Street isn’t in Westfall.”