The Art of Crash Landing by Melissa DeCarlo

shuffles through his papers until he finds the one he’s looking for. He studies it for a second and then looks back up at me. “There are several claims against the estate, and more creditors will probably surface after we publish the combined notice.”
    â€œSo that means what, exactly?”
    â€œYour grandmother has outstanding bills that have to be paid out of the proceeds of the estate liquidation.”
    â€œAnd I’ll get what’s left.”
    â€œThat is correct.” He clears his throat and picks up his papers, repeating the tap-and-straighten process. There’s more, I can tell, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like whatever it is.
    â€œIs there going to be anything left?” I ask.
    He frowns and looks back down at the paper. It looks to be a list—a long list. “There are quite a few creditors who have filed a claim, but I think there’ll be something remaining,” he says. “She did leave a house.”
    â€œShe left me her house?”
    â€œTechnically she left it to your mother. But as the surviving heir it goes to you.”
    â€œA house.”
    â€œYes. Her house and the Winstons.”
    â€œCigarettes?”
    â€œDogs.”
    I pause, certain that I have lost the thread of this conversation somewhere. Luke is watching me with a strained expression on his face. Perhaps this is the bad news. “Did you say, dogs ?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œLet me get this straight . . . she left me more than one dog and a house?”
    â€œTwo,” he replies. “Dogs, I mean. Just one house.”
    â€œA nice house?”
    â€œI don’t know. But I’ve met the dogs. They’re nice enough.”
    I pause to let this sink in. Luke seems perfectly happy to sit quietly and let me think.
    â€œSo, we sell the house . . .”
    â€œYes. After the court hearing you’ll be named the executor, and you’ll liquidate the assets and clear the liens against the estate.”
    â€œAnd keep whatever is left.”
    â€œCorrect.”
    â€œAnd there will be something left,” I add.
    He pauses, doing a little maybe-maybe-not thing with his head and then says, “Probably.”
    â€œAnd the dogs?”
    He shrugs. “They’ll be yours.”
    â€œProbably?”
    â€œNo. I’m certain you’ll get to keep them.”
    Luke is still smiling, and I’m grinning right back at him, with a real smile this time. I can’t help it. Sure my life is in the crapper, and this turn of events feels a lot like somebody pressing the flush handle, but at the same time this seems like the funniest joke ever. How can I not appreciate its flawless execution?
    I flip through the stack of papers in my lap; the will is dated seven years ago, two years before my mom died. I wonder if my grandmother considered redoing it when Queeg called and toldher about her daughter’s death. Surely he told Tilda about me. Maybe she left it as it was, knowing that it didn’t matter, that they’d find me, and I’d be sitting in this chair. Or maybe she was like me, and she waited and waited until one day it was too late to change anything.
    â€œThe dogs are both named Winston?” I ask.
    He nods. “To the best of my knowledge.”
    â€œWhy do you suppose she did that?”
    â€œWell, the simplest explanation would be that your grandmother really liked the name Winston.”
    â€œBut do you think that’s why?”
    He takes a moment to slide his papers back into their file. When he looks up at me his expression is serious. “It’s been my experience, Ms. Wallace, that when it comes to human behavior, the simplest explanation is rarely the correct one.”
    I notice that the branches on the trees outside are still shifting to and fro, but the birds are gone, having either landed or given up. My throat aches, and the hollow feeling in my chest is back, so I pick up my