She dropped the pen on the wood, and it rolled across the table and bumped a ceramic plate.

“Your turn.”

I picked the pen up off the table.

My hand was perfectly steady as I signed my full name on the grantee line right below hers.

The blue paper lay between us under the yellow bulb dangling over the table.

I lifted it by one corner, folded it neatly in thirds, and tucked it into the inside pocket of my faded denim work shirt.

“Where’s my copy?” she asked, holding her hand out over the table.