I came home to find Paul sitting concentrated in front of a pile of papers.
"You came back from the lawyer's?" I asked. He said nothing. He kept rifling the papers - old yellowed sheaves of pages that looked flimsy to the touch.
I looked over his shoulder. They were letters addressed to his mother. "You got those from the lawyer?" I asked.
He turned his back to me. I felt hurt at the rebuff. I closed the door and decided to head for Marc's.