He turned on his heel and walked toward the bank entrance without waiting for me to get out of the truck.

By seven that evening, the blue neon sign outside the Oak Lawn restaurant was reflecting in oily patches across the wet pavement.

Frank and I sat in a high-backed leather booth near the back kitchen doors, two ceramic coffee cups sitting untouched on the white linen tablecloth between us.

“The bank agreed to review our operating credit line on December fifteenth,” Frank said, laying out three single-page summaries next to his plate.

“That gives us nine weeks to show steady leadership.”