“Bring a sweater,” Grace said, taking another bite of her cookie.

“They leave the double doors by the court open when the gym gets crowded.”

“I’ll bring two,” I said.

At two o’clock, steady footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs of our front porch.

Marcus Vance stepped up to the screen door with his worn leather briefcase in one hand and two yellow legal pads tucked under his arm.

“Afternoon, Rebecca,” Marcus said through the screen.

“Come on in, Marcus,” I said, opening the door for him.