Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table

He reached into the back of his car and pulled out a large, heavy plastic tote.

He carried it up the wooden steps, and I backed up to let him into the house.

He set the tote down on the faded linoleum floor.

I looked down at it.

It was full of basic canned soup, boxes of dry pasta, and two loaves of cheap white bread.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Groceries,” Desmond said.

He studied the chipped edge of the kitchen counter.