He hates surprises.”

“Then let’s give him one he can read.” I folded the record and tucked it into my bag.

The black leather case pressed against my hand.

The records annex at First National smelled of toner and stale coffee.

Lorraine Kline, the records clerk, brought out a gray box with both hands.

“You’re Arthur’s girl,” she said.

“Your grandfather always signed in with a pencil.

He said pens made him feel like he was in court.”