Bob jabbed his thumb at the little notch cut into the square head of the key.

“That’s key W-14,” he said, tilting the brass head toward the yellow bulb over the front door.

I pressed the pinecone wreath against the iron hook on the porch frame.

“I didn’t know your Uncle John had a special lock on his basement.”

“It’s just for the main shutoff valve under his laundry sink,” Bob said, sliding the brass ring over his thumb.

“That iron pipe burst on him again while he was frying pork chops.”

He backed up toward the top porch step, glancing at his watch twice before his hand landed on the wooden railing.

It was six twenty-two.

“Uncle John needs me over there right now, Penelope, so don’t hold supper for me,” he said.

“There’s a pork roast in the oven,” I said.

“It’ll be done in fifteen minutes.”

“Keep it warm under some tinfoil,” Bob said, already heading down the three wooden steps.

“I’ll grab a sandwich later on if I get hungry.”

He was in his sedan before I could pass him his yellow raincoat off the hall tree.

The kitchen clock struck six thirty while his tires were still crunching over the gravel at the end of our driveway.

I finished putting up the wreath and drew the hanging wire snug against the brass hook.

The porch felt cold and still once the red taillights had rounded the corner of Elm Street.

At a quarter to seven, Clara came in through the back screen door holding a blue glass casserole dish wrapped in a damp dish towel.