For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke

“Good afternoon, Arthur,” Mark called out.

He pushed the trunk lid halfway down and walked over to us across the dry grass.

He wore a crisp white button-down shirt and perfectly pressed dark slacks that didn’t look like they belonged in a driveway.

“I appreciate you taking her for the afternoon,” Mark said.

He put a hand on Emma’s shoulder.

She looked down at her shoes on the concrete.

“Listen here, Mark,” I said.