Howard Finch was already standing on the concrete loading dock, holding a thick cardboard box stamped with the county records seal.

We went into the back room, and I locked the door.

I turned on the small space heater in the corner.

Howard set the heavy box down on my wooden desk.

I sat in my creaking leather chair and rubbed my thumb against my wedding ring.

The crying was done, and the time for making excuses had passed.

Howard took out his pocket notebook and tapped it against his right knee.

“I pulled the routing sequences from the county clerk and the regional clearinghouse,” Howard said in his low, gravelly monotone.