“I’m not asking for your money or your apartment,” I said.

“I’m asking for your signature to protect our son.”

He reached into his apron pocket, took out a stubby blue ballpoint pen, and smoothed the paper against the red brick wall.

He signed his full name on the line marked Biological Father without hesitating, his hand steady against the damp brick.

Attorney Pendelton was waiting in his dark green sedan at the mouth of the alley when Brandon handed the signed paternity document back to me.

The interview room at the Bellevue police station smelled of floor cleaner, wet wool coats, and stale coffee.