“You can have it,” he said, pushing the folder at me. “Your lawyer can have it. I’m not going to fight you about it.”

“Mr. Abernathy.” I made myself say it. “If I give this to my lawyer, and she uses it, you perjured yourself in front of a judge. There’s a name for that and it’s a felony.”

“I know what it’s called.”

“You’re seventy-something years old and you’re moving to your daughter’s.”

“I’m seventy-four,” he said. “And I’ve thought about it for two and a half years, which is longer than I thought about anything I ever did that was worth doing. I’d rather be old and in trouble than old and still carrying it.”

I stood there holding the folder. Here’s what I want to be honest about, because there’s no version of this where I come out of it looking the way I’d like to.