I remembered Oliver sitting at the kitchen table with his silver watch.

Talking about the roof.

The deed.

The bigger picture.

All those smooth reassurances.

He wanted me to believe that protecting our future required handing him the documents that defined it.

I nearly did.

Then a frightened nineteen-year-old handed me a small silver drive.

A careful bank employee questioned a signature.

An attorney helped me establish what the documents actually allowed.