“Thursday.

Or Wednesday.” He said it to the toaster.

“A retainer has a date on it, Julian.

It has a letter attached.”

He zipped the laptop sleeve.

“You’re overthinking this.”

“Four thousand two hundred dollars is nine percent of what we had in there.”

“You’re counting at breakfast.” He put his keys in his pocket and went out through the mudroom, and the door to the garage shut softly instead of hard, which was somehow worse.