So he was in a hurry, and hurry is expensive.

In the ninth week, we went into a conference room on the eleventh floor of a building on B Street: Christopher, his corporate attorney Grant Whitfield, Deborah, and me.

Christopher came in cheerful.

He shook Deborah’s hand.

He asked me how the apartment was.

And then Deborah slid a folder across the table.

I had put it together myself.

Forty-one pages, tabbed, indexed, with a one-page summary on top because Grant Whitfield is sixty-four and does not enjoy documents.