He nodded, sliding a stack of local newspapers into a wooden bin.
“They grow up fast,” he said. “Seems like yesterday she was running around here in her little yellow boots.”
I folded the envelope under my arm and walked out to the gravel parking lot, where my old Buick was idling with its familiar low rattle.
The morning sun was bright, but it did not warm the steering wheel as I sat there, holding the manila envelope against my lap.
I drove home slowly, keeping my speed exactly at twenty-five, watching the rearview mirror at every turn.
Martha, my older sister, was already sitting at my kitchen table when I got home at eleven.
She had let herself in through the back, as she always did, and had a mug of black coffee sitting between her hands on the clean wood.
She did not look up when I let myself in through the screen door.
