“Numbers are simple,” Dean said.

His eyes narrowed just enough to hide the crow’s feet.

“People only make them complicated when they hang on to old grief.”

He pushed his kitchen chair back two inches, its rubber feet scraping hard on the floorboards.

“Let’s sit in the front room,” Dean said.

“The morning sun’s better in there.”

He walked ahead of me into the living room, holding his envelope the way a preacher holds a Bible.

He sat on the edge of Daniel’s old wingback chair, his boots lined up neatly on the braided rug.