I signed the intake line.

The pen trembled once, then steadied.

Officer Bell met us in the precinct conference room with a cardboard box and a coffee he never touched.

“Your notary record came back,” he said.

“The commission expired in March.

The stamp on the power of attorney is past its date.”

I laid the copy of the form on the table.

My name sat at the bottom in a slant that was almost mine.