One line, twelve thousand five hundred dollars, posted back to the card it came from.

“There it is in ink,” Helen said.

“In ink,” I said.

She hung her coat on the bench hook and sat down at the island without being asked, which was one of the reasons I kept her around.

“You could put a new roof on this house with that.”

“The roof is fine.”

“The roof is eleven years old.

I look at it every morning from my own kitchen window.”