Forty-five minutes into the session, the air in the conference room had gone dry from the overhead vents.

My father picked up a stapled packet of old loan applications from seven years ago and slammed his open palm down on the table.

The glass of water beside my briefcase rattled on its paper coaster.

“You are going to sign a title assignment form today, Iris,” my father said, his voice rising until it bounced off the glass windows.

“If you don’t hand over that Toyota title by noon, I’m walking straight down the block to the Multnomah County precinct to file a formal report for grand theft auto.”