By six o'clock in the evening, the office looks slightly more organized, but the sheer amount of paper is still overwhelming.
We’ve spent hours sorting, stacking, and organizing. The printer has finally gone silent, sitting on the side table with its green light blinking softly. On the floor, fifty-six distinct piles of paper are arranged by month, stretching in four long lines from the desk to the leather sofa.
My eyes feel sore and dry. I stretch my back, letting out a loud groan as I lean my head against the high back of Dad’s chair.
"Tired?" Locke asks from across the room.
He’s sitting on the floor, surrounded by three months of delivery receipts, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He’s unbuttoned the top of his shirt, showing the heavy line of his tattooed collarbone an
