Retired eleven months, sixty-six years old, he had cosigned because the boy looked him in the eye when he asked, and the father took that as evidence of something. Forty-one thousand dollars, a line for the son and a line beneath it for him. He signed with the credit union's pen, the one on the little chain.

The agent who came to the fence was polite and had the paperwork in a folder and apologized twice. He kept his gardening gloves on the whole conversation. Afterward he stood in the driveway a while, then went in and did not call his son, because he already knew the boy would answer, and would sound fine, and would be sorry, and would need to be believed again.