Dr. Okafor stepped forward and explained that he had examined Douglas twice in August, with two witnesses, and recorded that Douglas was fully clear minded when he signed. Then Mr. Pruitt opened the second envelope. It was a letter in Douglas’s handwriting, and he read it aloud. Douglas wrote that in the spring he had discovered Camille had been quietly borrowing against the company’s trucks, nearly two million dollars, to cover her husband’s failed investments. He had said nothing because he hoped she would confess on her own.

Camille’s husband went white. Douglas had written that he refused to hand a company built by three hundred drivers to someone willing to gamble their paychecks. He had asked Mr. Pruitt to hold the shares in trust until the gala, since he knew I would never fight for them myself. The letter also said I had given him the only gentle years of his life, and that the house was mine to keep. Camille sank into her chair and did not look at anyone.

I took the microphone, and my voice shook only a little. I told the room I had no interest in revenge. I had spent years at bedsides watching families tear each other apart over what was left behind, and I would not do it to Douglas’s daughter. The debts would be repaid from her trust fund and her husband’s assets, not from a single driver’s pension. Camille would keep her seat on the board for one year, on probation.

The dispatchers from table fourteen joined me on stage, and the room applauded. In the lobby that night, Camille stopped me by the coat check, her eyes red, and whispered that she was sorry about the coat and about everything else. I told her the coat was eighteen dollars and the apology was worth far more. By spring, she was repaying the loans, her husband was in a different line of work, and I still lived in the house. Every December since, I wear that black wool coat.