Frank met me at the driver’s-side window at two fifteen sharp, a black leather binder tucked under his arm.

I stared down at my right hand on the steering wheel, rubbing my thumb against the stiff knuckle to get the feeling back.

“You look worse than you did at eight o’clock, Ray,” Frank said through the open window, his gravelly voice tight.

“There’s no color in your face.”

“I just need one good night’s sleep,” I said, clearing my throat before staring straight ahead through the windshield.

“You can’t sleep it off while you’re carrying twelve million dollars of bank debt,” Frank said, tapping his wooden pen on the truck door.