NATHAN
The carbon copy of the Riverside completion form is sitting on the granite kitchen island between my car keys and my father’s tablet when I come downstairs at seven.
My dad is standing by the espresso machine, already dressed in his charcoal suit, scrolling rapidly through his phone. He glances at the pink slip of paper with Mrs. Chen’s official blue ink signature and the red center seal, then looks up at me with a thin, irritated press of his lips.
"I had a meeting scheduled with the district superintendent’s legal counsel for ten this morning," he says, his voice crisp and low. "Harold thought we had solid grounds to dismiss the remaining requirements based on procedural errors in Albright’s initial documentation."
I zip my backpack and set it against the base of the barstool.
