"You could open it now," I told him, around ten that night.
"He said tomorrow." Jonah set it down carefully, like it weighed more than paper should. "I want to do it the way he asked."
Roland Ferris's office was on the second floor of a squat brick building downtown, the kind of place with a single overworked receptionist and framed diplomas slightly crooked on the wall. He met us at exactly ten, shook both our hands, and gestured us into two chairs across from his desk.
"Before I say anything else," he began, "I want you to understand that everything I'm about to tell you was fully documented, witnessed, and legally sound. Mr. Whitfield made these arrangements himself, of sound mind, eighteen months ago, and updated them twice since, most recently four months back. There is no ambiguity here, and no room for a successful challenge, though I suspect that won't stop someone from trying."
