I carried two boxes to her trunk because my hands needed something to do.

She thanked me twice for the same box.

Her lip stayed caught between her teeth until I pulled out of the driveway.

The county keeps its old deed books on microfilm in a back room of the public library, and the room smells of dust and cold air from a vent that never stops blowing.

Tom Vance, the archivist, no relation to my lawyer as far as he knew, threaded the reel for me and showed me how to scroll through the pages.

“Anything older than 1998 is on film,” he said.