Under it he had written my name, Mason Prescott, in the same blue.

The ink had bled a little at the curve of the M.

I stared at the signature on the lake lot deed.

My father had dated it the day I was sentenced.

Arthur closed the folder and pushed it across the table.

“Now you have paper of your own.”

“Paper is what put me in there.”

“Paper is what gets you out.