A black Audi swung into the driveway, its headlights carving two bright yellow paths across the frosty grass.

The driver tapped the horn twice, a sharp, metallic sound in the still evening air.

The slip of paper shook in my fingers as Julian’s Audi honked in the driveway.

I pushed the deposit slip into my coat pocket and went out to my car before Julian got to the front steps.

At a quarter past nine the next morning, I was standing at the tall wooden counter of the county recorder’s office in downtown Oak Ridge.

The room smelled of old paper and radiator steam.