She sat. He sat. She took the reading glasses off her head and put them on and opened the folder and turned it around to face him and began, the way she had told him she would, at the top.
"Buyer's order," she said. "This is the deal. Read it. Don't sign it because I tell you to. Vehicle, 2017 Toyota Sienna LE, silver, VIN ends in four-four-one-seven. You can go out and check it against the dash and the door jamb, and I want you to, before you sign anything." She waited until he nodded. "Odometer seventy-one thousand two hundred and six. Sale price thirty-one thousand six hundred. Documentation fee two hundred ninety-five. That's what I charge everybody; it's posted on the wall right there. Title ad valorem tax, two thousand two hundred twelve; that's the state's, not mine, seven percent of the fair market value, I collect it and send it to the county with your title application. Title fee eighteen, registration twenty. Total thirty-four thousand one hundred forty-five. Less deposits on account, nineteen thousand five hundred. Balance due, fourteen thousand six hundred forty-five." She tapped the bottom of the page. "No add-ons. As-is, no dealer warranty, except the ramp. I'm giving you ninety days on the ramp in writing, because I paid a man in Macon to go through it and if he missed something I'll make him come fix it. That's the second page."
He read it. He read it twice. He took the paper outside and stood by the open driver's door of the van in the slanting light and found the VIN on the little metal plate at the base of the windshield and read it against the buyer's order digit by digit, his lips moving, and then he did it again on the sticker in the door jamb, and came back in and sat down.
"It matches," he said.
"Good." She uncapped a pen and handed it to him. "Then sign there, and initial there, and there."
He signed. The ink was blue.
"Bill of sale. This is what you show anybody who asks you if you own it before the title comes back. It says I sold it, you bought it, the date, the price, the VIN. My signature, your signature, and the dealer number." She tapped a line printed under her letterhead. "Keep that one in the van. Not in your house. In the van, in the glove box, with the insurance."
He signed.
"Title." She took it out of a separate sleeve, a long Georgia certificate of title, mint green with the state seal in a guilloche border, and laid it in front of him with a kind of formality. "This is the actual title. The lady in Valdosta signed it over to the auction, the auction assigned it to me, see, here, dealer reassignment, and now I assign it to you, here." She pointed with the cap of her pen. "Odometer disclosure, you sign that you acknowledge the mileage. Then this goes with your MV-1, that's the tag and title application, to the Henley County tag office. I take it Monday morning. In three or four weeks the state mails you a new title with your name on it. Until then, the title's in my safe with a copy in your folder, and the original stays with me, because that's the law, not because I don't trust you."
"I understand."
"MV-1." Another form. "Name, address, insurance company, policy number. Your agent sent me the binder this morning; I checked it, it's good. You're applying for a disability plate, not a regular plate, since your son is the person with the disability and he lives at the address. That's this form, and it needs his doctor's certification. You said you'd have it?"