Gene stood in the doorway with an armload of gray tax binders, checking his gold wristwatch for the third time in ten minutes.

“You’re wasting your morning on dead paper, Mara,” Gene said, his loud voice carrying straight down the hall.

“The probate lawyer needs current bank statements, not ten-year-old utility bills.”

“I’m looking for his medical reimbursement baseline,” I said, turning my silver wedding band around my thumb.

“If hospice asks for past insurance verifications, we’ll need the paperwork.”

“I took care of the insurance,” Gene said.

He came into the room and dropped the heavy binders on the corner of the desk with a dull thud.