He gathered the folder from the sideboard — a worn leather thing Margaret had kept in her desk drawer for years, the kind with the elastic band around it. She had organized it sometime before she got sick, labeling everything in her careful handwriting.
He’d gone through it after she passed, slowly, page by page, not understanding most of what he was looking at but not wanting to put it down either because her handwriting was in the margins and her handwriting was something of hers he still had. He assumed it was account paperwork. Something the woman on the phone had said he might need to bring.