Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table
The metal rattled.
“Stop lying to me,” he said.
His gruff voice echoed across the empty lot.
A woman getting out of a minivan two spaces over stopped and stared at us.
Arthur lowered his voice, but his face stayed flushed red.
“You think I enjoy raiding my nest egg?” he asked.
“You think I want to work part-time at the hardware store when I’m almost seventy?”
“No,” I said.
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