“And what do we get?” he asked.

“You get to walk away without a public lawsuit,” I said. “And you get to keep whatever dignity you have left.”

My father let out a short, harsh laugh.

“Dignity doesn’t keep the lights on,” he said.

“Then you get nothing,” I said.

The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.

The only sound was the howling of the wind outside and the crackling of the pine logs.

My father took another step toward the table.

His hand crept back toward the yellowed paper.

“You think this little piece of trash is going to stop us?” he whispered.

I stood my ground, my fingers tight around the cold plastic of the radio in my pocket.

“Try me,” I said.

He reached down, his fingers brushing the edge of the paper.

I didn’t move.

My mother watched him, her breath hitching in her throat.

“Richard, don’t,” she whispered.

He ignored her.

His hand gripped the paper, his fingers curling around the fragile edges.

The paper crinkled loudly in the quiet room.

He looked at me, a cruel smile touching the corners of his mouth.