I could hear him breathing.

“I’ll send the affidavit to your lawyer tomorrow,” I said.

“You can take it or leave it.”

“Good night, Wyatt.”

I hung up the receiver and set it neatly back down in its cradle.

At ten the following morning, the city planner met me at the Blue Harbor gate, carrying a clipboard and wearing a windbreaker the color of a school bus.

“The final decree was recorded at Stamford probate at eight forty,” he said.