The date was printed clean and dark, a week before the day Brenda said my father passed.

“Arthur, if Dustin has that kind of debt, he can’t wait for probate.”

“No,” Arthur said.

“He can’t.”

The bell over the diner door rattled.

Victor Vance, the notary, came in carrying a manila envelope under his arm.

His chin was red from scratching.

He set the envelope beside Arthur’s plate.