My Brother Hid a Recording Module Beneath His Daughter’s Dining Chair

The parking lot was gray and wet.

A salt truck went past on Route 43.

“If he funded the grant,” I said, “he did it to keep me close.

So he could call me when he needed a witness.

So he could say, look at my brother, the filmmaker, he knows my family.”

Elena wrote something down.

“We don’t have the foundation records yet.”

“I know.”