He flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his wool sleeve.

“I was going over the house numbers last night.

You’ve still got seven years of mortgage payments left, haven’t you?”

“Eight thousand four hundred dollars’ worth,” I said.

Dean took a silver pen out of his breast pocket and tapped it twice on his knuckles.

“I want to pay it off for you,” he said.

“Every last penny, straight out of my personal checking account.”

I turned the silver band on my right ring finger.