Thirty-Six Pages of Bank Receipts and the Chicago Mortgage Transfer I Finally Canceled

The woman running the pottery stall smiled at me and held up a little blue cup, asking me something in Portuguese.

I gave one shake of my head and stepped back toward the stone wall.

I read over the draft I’d written to my brother.

Every sentence in it was true.

Every figure was backed by the thirty-six bank receipts sitting in the secure folder on my laptop.

If I sent it, he’d read it in the dark living room in Chicago with Margaret sitting next to him holding a candle.

He’d know I knew about the quitclaim deed.