Before we parted, he handed me his half of the compass and the phone number of Joan Pruitt, an attorney who had advised my father.

“I don’t want you to owe me anything,” he said.

“Then don’t decide things for me again.”

I took the bus to my apartment.

On top of a bookshelf sat the wooden filing cabinet Grant had so often wanted to throw out.

I took out my compass.

On the back there was a tiny slot.

When I joined it with the other half, two inscriptions appeared: “317” and “F47.”