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L-shaped group of buildings. I can see a karate school, a noodle shop, a dusty grocery store, and an old office building.
    “Make sure you lock the doors,” Mom mutters to Dad. I look out and see some sleazy-looking guys loitering near the grocery.
    I wonder how many kids my age have ever been to a lawyer’s office. I haven’t. I’ve always pictured lawyers’ offices looking like they do on TV or in the movies. You know, you go up in a sleek elevator in some impressive glass-sheathed towers and then you’re ushered into a dark-wood-paneled room with large leather chairs and shelves filled with law books.
    Yeah, well, this looks more like the back room where we get our car repaired.
    We all carefully pick our way up a rickety flight of stairs and find ourselves in front of a dented door with a plastic nameplate pasted on, the kind you get at a stationery store.
    Mom knocks politely. No answer.
    We wait, and watch the characters wandering on the street, who look like they escaped from some reality TV show about drug addicts or drunks. My dad knocks this time, a lot louder than my mom. After a little bit, the door opens, and we find ourselves in the offices of Ben Huang, Esq. (don’t ask me what “Esq.” stands for. It’s on the nameplate).
    Mr. Huang matches his office perfectly. A large, sweaty old man, he smells of some funky aftershave—I bet he started wearing one brand in the seventies when it was popular and never changed it.
    Mr. Huang is also rocking a pretty sweet diamond ring on his pinky. I am totally impressed by this until I see my dad turn to my mom, raise his eyebrows, and mouth the words “He’s wearing a pinky ring,” in response to which Mom puts her hand over her mouth and shakes her head. So maybe it isn’t so impressive.
    Mr. Huang shakes hands with the family (I know I will continue smelling that aftershave on my hand for days).
    “So nice of you all to come,” Mr. Huang wheezes as he settles himself into the chair behind his desk, which is littered with files and papers of all colors and sizes.
    We find places to sit and he begins.
    “We are gathered here for the purpose of reading the last will and testament of Takateru ‘Ted’ Wakabayashi. Dear Uncle was eighty-eight years of age at the time of his passing. There are a few things I need to establish before I get to the actual reading of the will itself.”
    Mom pulls a yellow legal pad from her purse.
    “I promised the relatives back in Hawaii that I’d write down everything in the will. Let’s just hope he gave something to Auntie Tomoko. Otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.”
    Mr. Huang looks up from his papers.
    “As I call your names, please answer ‘Present.’ If anyone listed is not here, under the terms of Dear Uncle’s will, I cannot continue.”
    It’s creeping me out that Mr. Huang insists on saying “Dear Uncle” with the same sympathetic smile every time, but then again, it goes with the rest of the general smarminess that hangs off the old guy like his cheap aftershave.
    As Mr. Huang reads our names, we all say “Present.”
    “ ‘I, Takateru ‘Ted’ Wakabayashi, being of sound mind and body, do hereby grant…’ ” And on and on.
    I look over and see that Mom is furiously writing down all the amounts the lawyer says, like she’s trying to finish a test in the last minutes before time is up.
    “Auntie Tomoko will be very happy,” she mutters more than a few times.
    Finally, Mr. Huang puts down the paper and wipes his forehead with a grimy handkerchief. He smiles and says, “This is the end of Dear Uncle’s will.”
    My mom begins to put her pad away when the old guy holds up his hand.
    “That
was
the end of Dear Uncle’s will until two days ago. I was summoned to his bedside in the hospital. There he dictated to me a codicil to the existing will. For the benefit of our youngest visitor, I will explain what a codicil is.”
    Right. Like I’m the only one in the room who doesn’t know