Margaret Walked Away From Scottsdale With a Blue Mug and Eighty-Nine Million Dollars

I laid my palm flat across my collarbone.

“When was it he asked him that?” I asked.

“Yesterday, while you were at the store,” Caleb said.

He jabbed a dry twig into the desert dirt between the pavers.

“He told the man in the white truck that everything in the casita had to be gone by the middle of November.”

“Did the man say anything back?” I asked.

“He said it depends how heavy the wood frame is,” Caleb said.