“He figured you’d be too ashamed to let anybody see all those dirty coins on your driveway.”

“Because he was ashamed when he was eight,” I said.

“He’s carried that cheese sandwich on his back for forty years,” Irene said quietly.

“He thought he was teaching you how hard the world really is.”

I took the yellow 1984 ledger sheet out of my tote and unfolded it on the dashboard.

“He never figured we’d scrub them clean,” I said.

“He never figured anybody would remember where his debt came from,” Irene said.