I wiped it off on my coat and carried it home.

By eight thirty the next morning it sat in a plastic bag on Arthur Pendelton’s desk, next to the pink slip for my Buick.

The bag was fogged at the edges.

Arthur picked up the title with two fingers, the way he handled good china.

“You understand this is collateral, Brenda.

If the petition fails, the car belongs to me until you pay the fee.”

“It isn’t going to fail,” I said.