“Just a minute, Mr. Miller,” David said, his voice barely audible.

He looked at me, his eyes wide and filled with a strange, desperate confusion.

“Mom,” David whispered.

“Is this what you want?”

“It’s what we all need, David,” I said gently.

“Please.”

David looked back at Harold.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

His shoulders fell.

The defensive posture he had carried for months seemed to crack.

He looked down at the key in his hand, then back toward the man waiting by the truck.

“Mr. Miller,” David said, his voice stronger now but shaking.

“I’m sorry.”

“The sale is off.”

Mr. Miller stopped.

He looked at David, then at his clipboard, then back at the ramp of his truck.

“You’re sure about this?” Mr. Miller asked.

“I am sure,” David said.

The wind blew a wet leaf across the driveway, sticking it to the toe of David’s boot.

“There is a cancellation fee,” Mr. Miller said, tapping his pen against the metal edge of his clipboard.

“I will cover that,” Harold said.