“Mark? Do you want these?” Mom held up some papers, but they slipped from her fingers and floated to the kitchen floor. She laughed. “Didn’t mean to throw them at you.”
Boxes covered the table and some of the chairs. They’d have to work hard if they were to eat on the table for supper. Mom promised leftover lasagne—the best.
Mark shook his head and smiled. He leaned over and picked up the scattered papers and a card slipped out from among them. He knew he really didn’t need any of this stuff. It was just fluff to him, unimportant papers and threads to Dad’s drunken life. He recognized court papers. He’d seen plenty of those at work as people passed from jail time through the court system and onto wherever they’d been sentenced.
Like Phil Daynton was now. Mark would be fully satisfied an
