It had passed to me automatically on the twelfth of October by a two-page affidavit recorded in 2016.

The account was not in it.

It had passed to me on the thirty-first of October by a line on a signature card.

So what my father was executor of — what he moved into a house for, sent a lawyer about, offered me a twenty-nine-thousand-dollar car to get a signature on, and put a letter under my door over — was a Buick, a checking account and a house full of furniture.

Four thousand eight hundred and ninety-one dollars.