“Thirty-five hundred.”

“Dad, that tractor is worth six.”

“It’s just iron and rubber, Claire.

It isn’t worth a single night of your safety.”

Arthur came at six with his leather briefcase and three copies of the state protection petition on yellow carbon paper.

The tea in the pot had gone cold, but I poured it anyway.

“Read the third page before you sign,” Arthur said.

“The court wants specifics, not feelings.”