“That’s — that’s everything.” Craig laughed, a short, thin sound. “That’s the whole recording.”
“No,” said my mother.
She had not raised her voice.
She set down her teacup, very gently, in its saucer.
“There are three, Craig. You know there are. Take two. Play take two.”
Craig stared at her.
For the first time all evening, the color moved in his face.
“Mom, you’re tired —”
“I’ve never been less tired in my life.” She folded her hands. “Play it.”
“Craig,” Pastor Joyce said softly.
Eighteen people stared at him.
Kristen had stopped smiling.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
It trembled.
Then he pressed it.
My mother’s voice came out of the speaker again, but different now.
Flat.
Strange.
Like a recording of someone speaking through glass.
“My name is Lenora Pratt. I authorize the transfer of my savings to my — peach cobbler.”
Silence.
