The mail came at eleven.

One envelope needed a signature, and it was from Marcus’s office, and I opened it at the counter with the butter knife still out.

Ethan read over my shoulder.

“Petition granted.

It says the twenty-second.

Mom, it says final.”

I read the line twice, then a third time, then handed it to him so he could hold it himself.

He held it the way he used to hold his report cards, at arm’s length, as if it might not be his.