I came after him with two wooden crates holding framed Sunday school photos, my brass desk lamp, and twenty-three years of handwritten sermon notes held together with rubber bands.

Arthur stood on the top step of the porch with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his black overcoat.

Next to him, a locksmith in blue work clothes was taking the old brass deadbolt plate off the front door with an electric screwdriver.

“Security takes full possession of the grounds at six o’clock, Tom,” Arthur called down, his voice slicing through the cold air.

“Anything still in the house after six belongs to the church.”