“She’s been angling for Frank’s estate ever since his diagnosis in September.”

“She has photo albums of me from back in nineteen eighty-nine, Uncle Gene.”

“Anybody can pick up an old family album at a swap meet,” he shouted.

“Frank was a good man who raised you on hardware store wages.”

“Then why did Frank write her exact street address on a scrap of hospital paper right before he passed out?” I asked.

“Because his brain was swimming in morphine and he didn’t know what day it was,” Gene said.