He was clutching his leather folder to his chest like a shield, his eyes darting toward the street.

He looked at us, his mouth opening as if to speak, but the persistent vibration of the phone in his pocket interrupted him.

He turned away from us toward the curb, waving his arm desperately at a passing yellow cab.

We watched him climb inside, his head sinking down below the window line as the taxi pulled into the Richmond traffic.

The drive back north to Fredericksburg was quiet.

The air conditioning in my old Buick hummed, fighting the August heat that rose in waves off the highway.

Caroline stared out the passenger window, her single hand resting quietly on her lap.

“Are you alright?” I asked as we crossed the Rappahannock River.

“I’m thinking about the math,” she said simply.

“What math?”

“The cost of his office lease, his pending lawsuits, and the high interest on his personal loans,” she said, her eyes fixed on the water below. “Without access to my trust fund, he has nothing left to cover his margins.”

She was right.