The ice machine groaned and spat out two cubes and a screw.

I folded the bills into my shirt pocket and went out into the lot with one hundred and fifty dollars that used to be my father’s.

The recorder’s window opened at eight thirty.

Victor Vance stood behind the glass with a stamp pad and a stack of forms, and he was scratching his chin before I said a word.

“Good morning, I’m sorry, we’re not open yet, I’m sorry.”

“Probate file for Jonathan Prescott.”