The financial details he’d written.

The space where he’d expected me to sign.

Then I placed it into the labeled legal-file envelope instead of leaving it loose among the kitchen utensils.

I was no longer frightened of the paper.

It was simply a record of something I’d refused.

Harry poured too much syrup over his pancakes.

I pretended not to notice.

Outside, the trees had begun turning red.

The old Buick stood in the driveway.

The belt no longer squealed.