I made two calls.
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The first was to my mother’s attorney, whose name was Robert Kim, and whom I had called two weeks into my mother’s stay to have a conversation about something I had been thinking about for some time.
The conversation had gone well.
I had a document.
The document was in my possession.
The second call was to Patricia Greene.
Patricia Greene had been a real estate attorney for twenty-two years.
She had handled the purchase of our house nine years ago, which was how Gabriel knew her, though he had not seen her since the closing.
She was the kind of woman who wore very specific suits and who had the bearing of someone who had spent two decades in rooms where the outcome of significant decisions depended on her precision.
