“Over one stupid loan.”

I looked at the scuffs on his dress shoes.

I remembered him buying those shoes back in May.

He’d bragged about the fine Italian leather while carrying my forged credit profile around in his back pocket.

An agent knelt and pulled the laces out of those shoes.

The other agent opened a small black ink pad on the table.

He took hold of my brother’s right hand.

He rolled Glenn’s thumb across the ink and pressed it hard onto a stiff white card.