Margaret Walked Away From Scottsdale With a Blue Mug and Eighty-Nine Million Dollars
“I’ve got my ID,” I said.
“You’ve got four hundred dollars in a checking account and a small pension,” Daniel said, his voice flat and weary.
“This pride of yours is going to cost you, Mom.”
He spun on his heel and went back to the side garage door, letting the heavy door latch shut in its frame behind him.
I went back to the casita and switched on the single lamp next to the bed.
Fourteen brown cardboard boxes stood stacked against the wall by the closet, sealed tight down their center seams with heavy brown paper tape.
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