I walked down the steps with my apron still on and stood beside him at the end of the driveway. Beverly leaned forward in her lawn chair. Hank and Russ went quiet by the curb. Dennis’s hands shook so hard the paper rattled, and I noticed it was not his handwriting. It was typed and folded in thirds, like something from a lawyer’s office.

“Read the first line out loud,” he said, “so they all hear it.” I took the page, and my eyes landed on the top line. My voice stopped working. It was a letter addressed to me, signed by a man named Gordon Pruitt, the seller of the boat. Behind us, a pickup turned onto our street and slowed to a crawl, and the man driving it was staring straight at Dennis.