Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

stool, her knees tucked under the counter. She pulled the ledger toward her and opened the first page, her fingers trailing down the columns of numbers.

“You always kept the pencil marks so faint,” she said, squinting at my handwriting from three months ago.

“My hand was shaking then,” I said. “But the numbers are correct.”

“I can redo continue reading …