That accounted for the deep white paint scratches on the steel handlebar frame.

“He didn’t mean to,” Noah said.

Michael looked at his son’s small shoulders.

He reached over and gently mussed Noah’s hair.

“Eat your pancakes,” Michael said.

“I’ve got an errand to run this afternoon.”

At two o’clock the Oakridge County Courthouse smelled of industrial floor wax and old paper.

Michael walked past the cold plastic chairs in the waiting room and sat down at a public computer terminal in the records room.