Sixty-one thousand miles, bought new, kept in the garage, not a single door ding.

The title was in the sideboard behind me, the pink slip, no lien on it.

Arthur followed my gaze and said nothing about the car, which was the loudest thing he did all afternoon.

“My Ruth froze a quart of your soup back in September,” he said.

“She wrote on the lid, do not eat.”

“That would be the dill,” I said.

He let out a laugh through his nose and closed the folder.