I took the bills.

A day earlier, getting that money back would have felt like an enormous victory, would have been the best thing that happened to me in a month.

Now I barely registered it, four hundred dollars, folded in my hand, while I stood over a binder that mentioned a trust fund and an estate and my dead mother, signed by a man who shared my name.

Because my eyes had gone back down to that signature at the bottom of the summons and stuck there, on the printed name of the attorney who had spent six months and considerable money hunting for me.