At half past two, I was sitting at my wooden desk in the back room of the market.

The scuffed linoleum squeaked as I shifted my chair.

A grandfather shouldn’t have to be dressed down in public just for asking about his own flesh and blood.

I smoothed the wrinkled yellow paper out flat on my desk blotter.

It was a carbon copy of a monthly rental invoice.

The header in the top right corner read Oakridge Marina in dark blue ink.

The billed party was Stevens Holdings LLC.