“The notary said it was a standard form,” he said.

“After the accident, you couldn’t handle paperwork.”

“Did I sign it?”

He looked down.

“Colton. Did I sign it?”

“I signed for you.”

The room seemed to tilt.

He rushed to explain that he had been terrified of losing our house, that the insurer had been slow, that the bills were arriving faster than his salary could cover them.