I took a slow sip of the juice, the intense sourness pulling at the corners of my mouth, but I did not let my face change.
“I am perfectly capable of handling my own insurance, Greg,” I said.
“Of course you are,” he said, his voice smooth and easy as he walked toward the hallway to check the thermostat.
“We only want what is safest for you as the winters get harder.”
He adjusted the dial, his smart watch buzzing twice against his wrist.
“I have to run to a meeting in the north end of town, but I will leave those files here for you to look over,” he called out.
He hurried out to his car, leaving the heavy red leather portfolio resting on the kitchen counter.
I did not touch it.
I cleaned my glass, dried it with a dish towel, and watched the red leather case sit in the morning light.
At eleven, I drove my old Buick down to the corner of Elm and Main, the engine idling with a familiar, low rattle.
