“You still remember it,” he said.

“It’s the year the company was incorporated.

I should hope so.”

The safe clicked open.

Inside, on the top shelf, sat a row of blue folders I recognized by their worn corners.

My father had kept the originals in his library since before the jet had its first coat of paint.

I lifted them out one at a time and laid them on the desk.

“You had these the whole time,” I said.