Sarah was waiting in the driver’s seat of my old Buick.

I opened the heavy passenger door and slid in.

The cracked vinyl seat burned the backs of my legs.

“Start at the beginning,” Sarah said.

She jingled my spare car keys in her right pocket, the metal clinking loudly against her loose change.

“David took out a second mortgage,” I said.

“Eighty-two thousand five hundred dollars.

He needs me to sign a quitclaim deed by Friday so he can get the cash.”