The wet oak leaves were stuck to the bronze marker like scraps of dark leather, but they weren’t what stopped me in my tracks.

Wedged into the sod behind the granite base was a cedar cigar box with a gray plush rabbit sitting on the lid.

The rabbit had one chewed felt ear and a missing plastic eye.

Paul had kept that exact toy on the top shelf of his closet for eleven years, wrapped in tissue paper inside a brown work boot box he never let me open.

“Look, somebody dumped their yard sale junk by the marker,” Sarah said, tapping her phone screen with her thumb.

My fingers went to the hollow of my throat and pressed hard against my left collarbone.

“Why is the rabbit from his closet out here in the dirt?

Who brought it?”

Sarah didn’t look up from her screen.

“Look, a stray dog probably dragged it out of somebody’s trash.”

I picked up the toy by its stitched neck.

The gray plush fur was completely dry, without a single drop of moisture on its belly.

Under the rabbit, three thick red rubber bands held the cedar box shut.

The wood smelled of cedar oil and damp earth, clean and sharp in the late autumn chill.

“My loafers are ruined on this wet grass,” Sarah said, scraping her heel against the curb.

“I’m walking down the hill to bring the Buick around.”

She headed down the gravel lane before I could answer, her camel wool coat swinging around her calves.

I pulled the cuffs of Paul’s faded blue work shirt down over my wrists.