They were old now. Still broad. Still strong. The knuckles stiff. Age spots marked the skin. I remembered those same hands at thirty, unloading freight before sunrise because I needed enough cash to cover payroll and Trevor’s school tuition.

I remembered Nancy holding one of them in the hospital, her grip weak but determined.

Protect our boy.

I’d done exactly that.

Then I kept doing it long after the boy had become a man who’d learned to treat protection as currency.

“Do the audit,” I said.