I’d had forty-two dollars left after filling up the tank on Tuesday.

I started the car and drove up Main Street toward my house on Elm Street.

By eleven thirty Dean’s silver Buick was idling at the curb in front of my brick house.

A bright yellow sheet of paper was flapping on my screen door frame, held down tight by a heavy brass magnet.

I parked behind his back bumper and climbed the concrete steps.

The paper was an official notice of temporary eviction from the county clerk, citing disputed estate assets in probate custody.