Against which:

A roof.

Four hundred and twelve deposits, counted, written down, in my handwriting, in a folder.

A notebook with nineteen instances of the phrase would not sign, which is worth nothing in a courtroom and which is the only private room my grandmother had in the last eight years of her life, and which is now in a box under my bed in her house.

And a line on a signature card at First State Bank, Oakhaven, that says payable on death to Tyler James Henderson, which he knows about.