Three lots down, a radio was playing softly through an open window.

I reached over to the passenger seat and picked up the thick envelope Brenda had stamped for me, along with a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill I’d carried in my shirt pocket for three weeks.

Next to the papers was a small baby cap with a frayed yarn pompom on top, the one I’d picked up off the dirt shoulder weeks earlier.

I left the cap on the seat and took the envelope and the bill.