The white paper of the county tax bill had a smudge of coal dust on the corner.
Richard held the sheet three inches from his nose, his thumb rubbing the bottom line.
“They printed this in grey ink,” he said.
His voice was dry, the short words clipped.
I slid a blue mug of black coffee toward his elbow.
“It looks black to me,” I said.
He did not look up, but his index finger began a steady, quiet tapping on the edge of the Formica table.
“Twelve hundred dollars,” he said. “They can afford proper ink.”
I adjusted my glasses, pushing the wire frames back up the bridge of my nose.
Beside his saucer sat the small metal tin of cherry throat lozenges he carried everywhere.
The lid was scratched on the corners, the silver metal showing through the faded red paint.
“We need to go into town before the bank closes,” I said.
He folded the bill twice, his creases slightly crooked, and shoved it into his flannel shirt pocket.
“The Buick is ready,” he said.
The smell of damp wool rose from his heavy winter coat as we settled into the bench seat of the sedan.
Two dried oak leaves were stuck under the passenger side wiper, rattling against the glass.
Richard started the engine, the quiet rumble of the motor filling the driveway.
He shifted into drive and we rolled out onto Route Twelve.
The road was empty, the autumn trees showing grey branches against the cold sky.
Up ahead, the speed limit sign stood by the old white barn.
We reached the sign, but the Buick did not slow down.
I gripped the edge of the plastic dashboard, my knuckles turning white.
“Richard,” I said.
He did not tap his fingers now.
His hands were clamped tight on the thin steering wheel.
We carried our speed through the curve, the tires hugging the yellow line too closely.
“I am maintaining forty-five,” he said.
He had not even looked at the metal marker as we passed it.
My chest felt tight, but I kept my voice flat.
“The limit changes at the creek,” I said.
