“What’s it for?” I asked.

“For the lunch fund.” Dale kept his eyes on the can.

“And I owe you an apology.”

Paul stepped forward.

“A donation this size needs a receipt and a witness.”

“Then you can witness it.” Dale nudged his leather belt buckle.

“I was the boy who got the cheese sandwich forty years ago, and Irene paid off my bill.”

Irene had come up behind us and stood with her hand on the doorframe.