bills halfway across the table.
“My mother is in a nursing home,” the man said. “Her name is Rosie. She has dementia. On her good days, she tells everyone within earshot that her son never comes to see her.”
“So, go see her.”
For half a second his eyes drifted to the window.
“I can’t watch her like that,” he replied. “Business obligations. Relatives are asking questions. Friends of the family. It’s becoming a situation.”
He slid a folded stack of bills halfway across the table.
“Five hundred a week.
