“You can’t do this to me!” David screamed, his voice cracking like a frightened child’s.

“I have a closing deadline Friday!

You’re wrecking my whole life!”

“Your deadline just went by,” I whispered from the floor, pushing myself up onto one elbow.

The heavy manila envelope slid out of David’s numb fingers.

It hit the floor with a dull thud, skidded two feet across the waxed tile and spilled open.

Greg bent down, gathered up the thick stack of papers and turned to the second page of the mortgage agreement.

“Look at this,” Greg said, pointing at the signature line under the fluorescent lights.