“Where’s the spare key?” Julian said.

“The one under the pot.”

“In the kitchen drawer,” I said.

“Sign.”

He turned the deed around and picked up the pen, and the butter knife slid off the tray and hit the floor and rang, and nobody bent to get it.

He wrote his name at the top of the first page, and it came out smaller than his usual signature, the way a boy signs for something he has broken.

“Initial the bottom of every page,” Sarah said.