“Chelsea’s bad credit meant he had to buy the BMW in his name alone,” I said, my voice flat and even.

“And he used my loan repayments to secure the equity.”

“Are you going to call him back about the voicemail?” Monica asked.

“No,” I said, closing my logbook.

“I’m going to the motor vehicle office.”

The lobby of the Sacramento Department of Motor Vehicles smelled of old paper dust, cold coffee, and floor wax when I walked through the sliding glass doors at nine.

By eleven o’clock, I was still sitting in a blue plastic chair by the window, holding ticket B-104 in my right hand.