That’s longer than he’s been gone.”

“Half the papers in that house had my name on them.

I’m the one who handed him the pen.”

“You handed him a pen.

You didn’t hand him your name.

There’s a difference, and it’s going to matter in front of a judge.”

He got up and poured the coffee, then set the cup down next to my hands on the wooden table.

It was the heavy mug from the 1998 county fair, with the chip on the rim that he refuses to throw away.