“My wife set up a craftsman grant fund five years ago,” Nathaniel said, writing Martha’s full name on the payee line.

“It matches back pay for specialists who were wrongly blocked from job sites.”

He wrote out the figure of twenty-two hundred dollars in steady, deliberate strokes.

“I can’t take money I didn’t earn,” Martha said, her soft voice turning brisk and sharp.

“You built the acoustic arch in my main hall,” Nathaniel said, blotting the ink dry with a green leaf blotter.

“You earned every cent of this grant five months ago.”