He scratched his chin again.

“Mostly.”

“There’s no mostly on a notary stamp,” Arthur said, not unkindly.

Victor signed.

He wrote the date beneath his name, checked it against a receipt in his coat pocket, and signed a second time where Arthur pointed.

He capped his pen and looked at the page as if it might still change.

“My mother is seventy-nine,” he said.

“She doesn’t need a sheriff at her door.”